beware the howling woods
by Muffintine
Summary: [complete] [sterek] Stiles finds himself with a face full of very hot, very angry park ranger. He has a moment to thank the heavens he's not being mugged before said ranger speaks. "What do you think you're doing," he growls, seriously growls, at him. "Um," Stiles starts, blinking rapidly as blotches of light dance in front of his eyes. "I was taking a leak?"
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

It's early December when Scott promptly _loses his mind_.

"You're going _to what?!_" Stiles exclaims, squinting his eyes incredulously.

Scott blinks slowly, frowning in genuine confusion. "I'm gonna take a trip to the mountains. Do a little soul searching, dude."

"That is the stupidest thing that has ever come out of your mouth," Stiles accuses, "and you've said some dumb stuff."

Scott huffs and his eyes go wide with subdued hurt. "I just need to get away," he grounds out pathetically. And okay, yeah, Stiles feels a _little_ bad for him. But only a little. "From Allison and, y'know, stuff."

"Stuff," parrots Stiles, biting his lower lip and scrunching up his brows to keep from asking his lovably dumb best friend to elaborate. "Okay," he relents, throwing his hands up in surrender. "_Okay_."

"Thanks man! I _knew_ you'd understand." Scott grins and claps him on the back with a little too much force.

"Yeah, whatever," Stiles grumbles. "Just don't get eaten by an overzealous bear."

Scott's laughter fills the room and Stiles can't help it, he smiles. He claps Scott on the back in turn, guiding him towards his closet. "Alright, let's get you packed. God knows if I leave you to it you'll end up as a camping cautionary tale. And I'm serious if you get eaten by some wild animal I will laugh – _hysterically! _– at your funeral. And desecrate your grave. Desecrate it! Also, pack an extra inhaler, dude, because if you lose—"

"_Stiles_," Scott whines, big brown puppy eyes glaring.

Stiles laughs. "I'm gonna miss you, dude."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Just shut up and help me."

* * *

The morning greets them with a cold and crisp wind chill. Stiles shivers as he helps Scott pile all of his camping gear into the trunk of his beat-up '97 Honda (the one that Stiles _explicitly_ told him not to purchase as a graduation gift to himself). It doesn't all fit (go figure), so they resort to strategically placing luggage in the backseat, careful not to obscure the rear window. After battling and rearranging for a half hour, the finally manage it (but just barely).

"So," Stiles begins, shifting from side to side awkwardly. "What'd you tell your mom?"

Scott huffs a laugh, warm breath billowing in the cold morning air. "The truth."

"Really? You told her you were going on a one man adventure in the mountains, to find yourself in some sort of transient, all inspiring mental escapade? Possibly to become a mountain man? Please don't come back a hippie. _Please_, for the sake of my mental health. If you start eating organic and become a vegan I will kill you slowly and painfully—"

"Vegan?" Scott laughs out, coughing horribly and inhaling sharply, grappling wildly at the inside of his coat pocket.

"Woah, woah, Scott, calm down, let me—"

Scott manages to free his inhaler and takes one, two sharp intakes of breath. He coughs, shaking slightly. "Damn, damnit!" he yells in anger as he slumps against his car for support.

Stiles stands there uneasily. He bites his lower lip and looks up through his lashes with uncertainty. "You sure you're going to be okay?" he asks. "I mean, buddy, the cold is _not_ good for asthmatics."

Scott's glare cuts right through him. "You think I don't know that?"

Stiles feels guilty immediately. "Sorry, man."

"Just forget it," Scott grumbles, shoving his inhaler back into his jacket pocket with more force than necessary. He jerks the car door open and slides inside. "Later," he says, hands flexing on both sides of the steering wheel.

Before Scott can haul the door closed, Stiles grabs for it, halting the motion. He hesitates. "I'm sorry things didn't work out with Allison," he says carefully, tone soft. He may be an ass eighty percent of the time, but it sucks seeing Scott so mopey. And while Stiles is strictly against hitting girls, he'd make an exception for Allison. She broke his best friend's heart, after all. That is _not_ cool in his books.

Scott winces. "Me too," he whispers before shutting the door with a muted click and driving off.

Stiles stands there for a moment or two, frozen to the bone. He whips out his phone and texts, _just let me kno ur alive evry day ok?_

_ok,_ Scott texts back immediately.

_and don't txt n drive dumbass_, he taps out, grinning like a mad fool when he presses send.

Scott doesn't reply. Stiles sighs and shuffles over to his jeep, starts her up and drives home, obeying all traffic laws, of course.

* * *

It has been two weeks since Stiles last heard from Scott and he's _worried_. He's been dodging Ms. McCall's phone calls for two days now and he can't stand to lie to her anymore. Scott _is_ her son. She deserves to know if something awful has happened to him. His brain betrays him then by offering up exactly why his friend may not have contacted him in grisly detail. Was he mauled by a bear? Is he laying somewhere in the forest, dead because he lost both of his inhalers? Did he get abducted by aliens? Shanked by a hobo? Cut up into a million pieces by a sadistic serial killer?

It is when the Sheriff places a strong hand on his shoulder and says, "Is there something you're not telling me, son?" that he decides he can't take it any longer.

"I'm meeting Scott tomorrow," he blurts before his brain can catch up with him. "To uh, soul search?"

His father looks down at him, mouth forming a thin, unreadable line. "Soul search," he repeats, arching a brow. "You?"

"What?" Stiles replies, affronted. "I could do it. I could let go of worldly things and get in touch with my 'inner self'."

"Uh-huh," the Sheriff nods, clearly not believing a word out of his mouth. "Just stay out of trouble."

Stile laughs nervously. "Trouble? Ha! What trouble could I possibly get into while … soul … searching…"

But his father is already walking away, coffee clasped tightly in his hand (it better be decaf, damnit), his head shaking at his son's antics; nineteen years, bless his father's eternally patient soul.

* * *

Stiles accomplishes wrestling a small dome tent into his jeep, a sleeping bag, toiletries, and about ten extra blankets (what? It's _cold_ in the mountains and he's 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone). He also packs a surplus of flashlights and steals his dad's lantern for good measure. After shrugging on two sweatshirts and a puffy, warm winter jacket, Stiles slides into the driver side of his jeep and switches it into gear.

The drive is a long and nervous one. He manages to survive by listening to all the shitty 90's pop the decade has to offer. He's bouncing up and down to Britney Spears'_... Baby One More Time_ (put that judgment right back where it came from) when he pulls up on the entrance to the campground Scott had promised he'd be staying at. ("It's this one, Stiles. I _promise_. Why would I lie to you? I'm going to find myself dude, not disappear forever."). There is a large, scowling woman sitting behind a thin layer of glass. Stiles rolls down his window and beams at her. "Good evening ma'am, you're looking radiant—"

She leans forward to speak through the meshed circular opening. "How many nights," she drawls, tone overly bored.

"Uh," Stiles falters. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "Three," he decides aloud. "Yeah. Three nights, that's what I want, ahaha…" he trails off when he spots the woman's obvious disdain for him. Oookay.

"Sixty dollars," she drones and Stiles winces because _come on_ that's like half of his meager savings. When (if) he finds Scott not-dead he's going to murder him himself or at least make him rue the day he was born. This is _tragically _not cool. Stiles wilts as he hands over the sixty dollars. Something inside him dies a tiny bit.

The money-thieving woman shoves a pass at him. He snatches it out of her hand with a grumble and grimace. He hangs it on his rear view mirror as he presses his jeep forward, moseying towards the campground. His jeep rocks a bit as he drives down the dirt road; fingers crossed his baby doesn't break down (that is _not_ a phone call he wants to make, thank you very much). As he pulls into the appropriate parking lot, he spots Scott's car right away. He parks next to it and hops out of jeep with twitchy eagerness.

Upon further inspection, he finds that Scott's pass has not yet expired (it has a week left) and that none of the surrounding campers have seen him for a least a week. ("Oh, you mean that sweet, brown eyed boy? He went off into the restricted area. Told him not to, the dear, but he just grinned at me and bounded off. Are you a friend of his?")

This leads Stiles to hike right past all off the **DO NO ENTER** and **CAUTION BEAR COUNTRY** signs with a wary eye. The territory is unfamiliar and in an attempt to not get lost, Stiles marks his path with brightly colored orange ribbons. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, Stiles grumpily decides to make camp. He fights with the dome tent for a good hour. It ends with his hands nearly frost bitten and his ego significantly wounded. As he lays there in his sleeping bag, mountain of blankets atop of him, he mentally kicks himself. How did he ever get it into his head that he was going to be able to locate Scott? The woods are freaking huge and, not to mention, when he was ten he almost failed Boy Scout Camping 101.

Plus, it's cold. So, so cold. Like, his balls are going to get frostbite and fall off, cold. Three hours in and he cannot take it anymore. He barrels out of his tent and makes a puny (it's pathetic, really) fire. At least his toes are warm. He was never meant to be a camper. Scott is crazy. More than insane, really. He got on the loony train and rode it all the way to probably-got-himself-killed-ville. "Stupid Scott," he grumbles, "stupid cold, stupid mountains, stupid, stupid, stupid!" Stiles throws some pine needles into the fire in frustration and sighs, irritated.

It occurs to him now that he is alone in the forest, that this is probably something he should have told his father about. But he hates the idea of encroaching on what-ever-the-fuck kind of weird shit Scott is doing with search parties and general panic.

Damn, now he has to piss and he really, _really_ doesn't like the idea of exposing his junk to subzero temperatures. Stiles frowns the most epic frowny face of all time and gets to his feet. He hobbles over to behind the nearest tree and unzips his pants. Dick in hand, he goes about his business.

And suddenly, there is a very bright light in his eyes and oh god oh god oh god there is someone walking towards him and that someone is growling – _growling!_ – Christ who even _does_ that!? Stiles palms at his dick immediately, shoving it back into his pants. "_Oh my god_," he shrieks (manly, he shrieks _manly_) in embarrassment. He backs himself flush against the tree, hands in the air. "I don't have any money I swear," he says, squinting into the light.

The light-wielder stomps forward and Stiles finds himself with a face full of very hot, very angry park ranger. He has a moment to thank the heavens he's not being mugged before said ranger speaks. "What do you think you're doing," he growls, _seriously growls_, at him.

"Um," Stiles starts, blinking rapidly as blotches of light dance in front of his eyes. "I was taking a leak?" he offers up, shrugging his shoulders in a way he hopes is nonchalant.

Oh, _oh_. Growly Ranger suddenly has him by the hair, tilting his head upwards painfully. His rock hard chest (Jesus, _what_ is this guy made of?) is pinning him to the tree and he has no excuse for how inappropriately turned on he is right now. "You shouldn't be here. This area of the park is off limits," he snarls into Stiles' face, voice deep and grating. His breath is hot on his cheeks and woah, this just isn't fair.

"Really? My bad, dude. I totally thought this area was camper-friendly," he smarts off, eyes traveling skyward and lips twisting into a goofy grin.

Growly Ranger is Not Amused. His lips pull back, exposing some, okay _wow_, some seriously sharp teeth. Are teeth normally that sharp or is he just losing his mind? He must be, because he blinks and the teeth are blunt and normal looking again. Ho_ly _crap. "Annnnd, it obviously isn't so if you would kindly let go of my hair, cause dude that hurts, what is your deal? I'll meander back to … appropriate camping areas."

"Stop calling me dude," he snaps, releasing Stiles hair form his grasp but not before smacking the back of his head. He backs up a step, blue-green-gold (crap, what color are his eyes even?) gaze assessing him idly. His eyes narrow a fraction.

"Ow, dud—_uhhh_…" Stiles sputters before spying his shiny D. HALE nameplate, "… Officer Hale." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Always treat curious campers with this much police brutality or am I just special?"

Officer Hale growls (is that this guy's default setting or something?) and trudges forward to grab Stiles roughly by the scruff of his neck. He guides him away from his makeshift campsite with some scary strength. "Shut. Up," he grounds out through clenched teeth.

Stiles doesn't get the memo. "Hey, hey," he prattles, following the ranger with a stumbling stride. "Where are you taking me—my stuff—I can't just—"

Officer Hale jerks him up and over a log before steering him to the left, right towards an innocent looking truck. It's parked to the side of what looks to be an old, unused dirt road. He slams Stiles up against the side of it, jerks the passenger side door open and all but pushes Stiles towards the entrance. "Get in," he demands.

All aboard the train to fuck-that-ville. "No," Stiles refuses. He tries and fails to wrench himself from Officer Hale's death grip. Said officer smashes his head against the glass and ow, ow, ow, what the _hell?_

"I said _get in_," Officer McGrowly snaps, shoving all four lanky limbs of Stiles inside. He slams the door shut behind him and stalks over to the driver's side. He hops into the truck and starts it up with a loud rumble.

Stiles gapes at him. Is this guy crazy? "What the… what was _that?_" he bites out, hands flailing as he glares purposefully at the man opposite of him.

And, great, he's being ignored—just _wonderful!_ Here he is, having just been pushed into some strange park ranger's truck without a proper explanation. It's looking more and more likely he's being led to his death at this point. His dad is going to be _so_ disappointed in him. Stiles closes his mouth, twists his lips into a sour scowl and glares with his arms crossed at Officer D. Hale. "So, Dylan," he begins with a guess, "mind telling me why you just manhandled me into your truck. Cause, I'm flattered and all but—"

"My name isn't Dylan," Officer McHottie grumbles, lips twitching.

"Right, well, Daniel," he continues, "you see not all of that camping stuff is mine, _per se. _Actually, none of it is mine, if we're being honest—wait, _wait_, I'm not saying I stole it! That is so totally not what I meant. It's all my dad's and if I come back without it, well that will lead to _questions_ that I don't have the _answers_ for so—"

"Derek," he snaps, turning the car a little too sharply, "my _name_ is Derek."

Huh. Derek. He can work with that.

"Alright, De_rek_," Stiles says, testing the name out on his tongue. It rolls off with a purr and a click, sounding oddly natural. "Explain. Now, preferably, or I'm going to throw myself out of this moving vehicle and run like crazy, screaming in a way that I assure you will be very masculine."

The doors lock with an audible click.

"Woah, are you serious right now?!" Stiles shrieks, all but vibrating in his seat.

"Completely," Derek monotones. He presses the petal to the floor and the truck speeds up with a lurch.

Stiles is not above begging for his life. "Please, please, _please_ don't kill me? You're a park ranger, you're a good guy or, oh god, you _are_ a real park ranger, right? This isn't all some elaborate ruse? Are you some mountain man serial killer? My dad is a Sheriff, I'll have you know. If I go missing he won't rest until he finds me. And when he finds you he won't arrest you okay, he will shoot you, probably multiple times—"

"Do you ever shut up," Derek snarls in his direction, eyes flashing bright blue.

Stiles rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly. "Not really, no," he says after a beat.

Derek's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "I'm not going to hurt you," he grits out and gees, it must have been painful for him to admit that by the constipated grimace contorting his features.

Stiles narrows his eyes. "I don't trust you."

Derek spares him a side eye. "I just saved your life," he rumbles testily. "You could show some gratitude."

Stiles laughs obnoxiously at that. "Dude, _what?_ What'd you save me from—exposure? Poison oak? Smokey The Bear?" He sighs dramatically and then grumbles, "If anything, you gave me a concussion."

The growling is back, vibrating from deep within Derek's chest. The truck must have some damn good acoustics because it shakes the whole cab. Then Stiles' whole world is turning on its axis because Derek slams on the breaks and he goes flying forward. His head smashes against the glove box with a vengeance (and yeah, that's _definitely_ going to bruise).

"_Ow_, what would you do that fo—"

But then he sees, holy god he _sees_. Crouching in front of the truck is the largest wolf Stiles has seen in the entirety of his, admittedly, short life. It is covered in thick, black fur matted with dirt and shit, yeah that is most probably blood. It bares its teeth, canines long and sharp while its eyes glow – freaking _glow_ – crimson red. It rears back and uses the full force of its back legs to propel it forward at the truck. The truck rocks back and forth as the wolf lands on the vehicle's hood. It snarls nastily at the windshield, thick, gooey saliva oozing from his mouth like some sort of disgusting fountain.

"Oh my god," Stiles shouts as he waves his hands manically towards the windshield. "Drive, drive, _drive!_"

Derek finally gets with the program by smashing his foot against the gas pedal so fiercely the truck screeches forward with a whine. The wolf slams into the windshield and the glass cracks upon impact. It howls in rage as Derek turns the truck sharply, flinging it off in one fluid motion. Stiles' eyes snap to the rear view mirror but the wolf is nowhere to be found. He whips back around and presses his back into the seat.

"A wolf just attacked your truck," he says, oddly not as freaked out as he thinks he really ought to be. "A _wolf_. California doesn't even have _wolves!_" He looks wildly at Derek, whose jaw is clenched and he seems… strangely clam for a guy whose truck just got attacked by a mutant wolf.

"It's rare," Derek bites out, "but not unheard of."

Stiles' heart is still hammering in his chest from all the excitement. "No I'm pretty sure it's unheard of," he replies, tapping his fingers on the leather armrest rhythmically. He scrunches up his brows as the cogs in his brain start to turn. His eyes go wide. "That's why you freaked out on me—you _knew_ that rabid wolf was out there," he narrows his eyes, "didn't you?"

Derek is quiet for a long, tense moment before he nods stiffly. "It hunts at night; tries to pick off lone campers."

Stiles suddenly has a whole new appreciation for Officer Derek Hale, Park Ranger Extraordinaire. "Thanks dude," he begins awkwardly. "It would have sucked to end up as wolf chow," he laughs and then says, "but next time? Try using your words."

Derek tenses. "Don't call me dude."

Stiles is mid-grin when the terrible awful occurs to him: Scott. Oh god_, Scott!_ He is about two seconds away from hyperventilating his way through a panic attack because _what if the wolf ate Scott?_ He's pretty sure no amount of therapy would help him through his best friend being torn to shreds by a giant mutant glowy-eyed wolf.

A warm hand brushes over the back of his neck. The touch is soft; unexpected. He jumps a little in surprise before relaxing instinctively into the caress. The hand travels upwards and the fingers brush against the base of his hairline, skimming through his buzz cut almost lazily. The sweep of skin against skin is remarkably comforting.

"Breathe," Derek murmurs, sounding unexpectedly gentle. There is no judgment there or malice.

The sound curls up inside of him and his heart stutters, beating out of rhythm. Heat blooms across his cheeks and he jerks away reflexively. "Thanks," he mumbles, turning away from Derek. He already aches for the touch to return and it leaves his head buzzing.

Derek grunts and retracts his hand.

Stiles picks at the lock on the door and frowns. "You haven't… no one has been hurt," he swallows, "right?" It comes out more weak than he'd like.

"No," is the gruff reply.

Stiles swallows again and sinks into the seat. After a moment or two, the rocking motion of the truck lulls him to sleep.

* * *

"Hey," someone says, sounding far off and unpleasant. "Wake up."

His shoulder is being shaken but he doesn't want to get up. Not yet. "Five more minutes," he mumbles, pulling into himself.

The grip on his shoulder tightens. "Get _up_," the voice says with more force.

Stiles cracks his eyes open and shifts his body into a more comfortable position. He wipes the excess spit off his chin and blinks. "Why," he groans to the person who has so rudely interrupted his beauty sleep.

"We're here," grumpy voice says as way of explanation. Stiles shifts his eyes to the left, yawning with dulled understanding. Right. Hot park ranger. Manhandling. Scary driving. Man eating wolf. That wasn't just some bizarre dream. His life sucks _so_ bad.

"Here?" he murmurs, peering out of the cracked windshield. A homely log cabin with warm light-filled windows greets his curiosity. "Where's here?"

But Derek has already climbed out of the truck and is stalking in towards the cabin. If Stiles stares at Derek's backside whilst taking longer to get out of the truck than strictly necessary then that's his business. With the promise of warmth on the horizon, he walks briskly across the yard and bounds into the cabin. "Hey, look, I appreciate you saving me from the scary—" Stiles begins, but the words die in his throat.

There, gaping at him open mouthed, is Scott.

Derek stands off to the side, looking between the two of them. "Friend of yours?" he asks Scott.

"Stiles," Scott spews disbelievingly. "What are you—No, _no!_ You cannot be here. Go home. _Now_."

Stiles is still processing that his friend is not, in fact, dead. "Go home?" he sputters. "After I drove all this way to find you, dodged call after call from your mom and lied to my dad? Like hell I'm going home, Scott."

Scott stomps forward, grabs him by the arm and yanks him out of the door before Stiles' brain can catch up. He tries to wiggle out of Scott's grip but he can't which is weird as hell. "Woah, woah, Scott, stop, _dude!_"

"It's not safe here," Scott is saying like that is supposed to _mean_ something.

"Uh, _yeah_," Stiles replies, "I kind of got that when the hungry, growly wolf tried to _eat_ Derek's truck."

Scott freezes and his grip tightens to a painful degree.

"_Ow_," Stiles groans. He winces and shakes his arm deliberately.

Scott drops the arm as if he's been burned. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Absently, Stiles rubs the spot where Scott's hand had wrapped around his arm. It throbs achingly and he notes absently that it'll probably bruise. He scowls at Scott who looks like someone just kicked his puppy. Stiles breathes in and then exhales. "Would have it hurt you to send me a text?" he asks, careful to keep the hurt from his voice.

"I lost my phone," Scott says a little too quickly. _Liar._

Stiles nods. "Okay, let's say for arguments sake you did," he pauses to glare, letting Scoot know _exactly_ how he feels about that lie. "Surely Derek has a phone you could have used since the two of you seem to be well acquainted? What, with you being in his house and all." He doesn't sound bitter. Not at all.

"You don't understand," Scott honest-to-god _whines_.

"Then explain it to me. 'Cause there is a whole lot of shit that doesn't make sense to me right now," he snaps. He has just driven a hundred miles, frozen his ass off, been subjected to police brutality and had a near-death-by-wolf experience. He can be as irritated as he damn well pleases.

"Stiles you just have to trust me on this, okay?!" Scott shouts at him, eyes flickering gold for a fraction of a second.

Stiles takes a half-step forward. "Did your eyes just—_urk!_"

Derek pulls Stiles back by the collar of his jacket. He's glaring at Scott. "You," he says pointedly. "Come back when you're ready to stop acting like a childish idiot."

Scott looks as if he's going to protest. "Did I stutter, McCall?" Derek says, arching a brow. Scott balls his hands into fists and stomps off in a huff, grumbling obscenities to himself.

Derek focuses his glare on Stiles next. "And you. Go inside. Now."

"But Scott—and the wolf—are you crazy?"

Derek scrunches up his brows but he only appears mildly annoyed. "Scott can handle himself," he supplies before herding Stiles inside and locking the door behind them.

"And I can't?" Stiles challenges.

"No, you can't."

Stiles goes for defensive. "How is it you know Scott anyway, Officer Hale?"

"I'm helping him," Derek says simply, sauntering into the kitchenette attached to the living room. He shuffles through a few cabinets and pulls out two mugs. He sets them down on the counter with a soft clink.

"Make a habit of 'helping' vulnerable young men?" he retorts a bit too viciously. Scott's old enough to make his own decisions about who he, well, whoever he wants to be with. Though, he thought Scott would never get over Allison. He was obviously wrong.

Derek pauses and leans up against the counter, muscles flexing. He turns a cool gaze on Stiles. "Why?" he grunts. "Jealous?"

"No," Stiles bites out too quickly.

Derek's lips twitch into a smirk as he reaches for the coffee pot. He pours the steaming brown liquid into both mugs and then looks up at Stiles. "Sugar?"

"Black is fine," he replies tersely.

Derek nods amicably and holds the mug of coffee out towards him.

"You are going to regret giving this to me," Stiles states sullenly as he snatches the mug from Derek's loose grasp. He drinks it down gluttonously and hums as the beverage warms him from the inside out. Derek remains where he is, gaze oddly intent. It burns into Stiles, hard and unwavering. It makes him shift uncomfortably. No one has ever looked at him with such intensity before. He fiddles with the empty mug to distract himself until he can't take it anymore. He sets the mug down on the counter. "What?" he asks as he rings his forefinger around the inside of the mug.

Derek's head tilts to the side as if he's considering something troubling. His gaze darkens as he strides forward, feet loud and heavy against the wood floor. Suddenly he is crowding into Stiles' space, looking down at him with something akin to guilt. He reaches up, movement fluid and sure as he smooths his left thumb over the upper right corner of Stiles' forehead. Stiles winces at the contact, hissing slightly. Derek pulls back immediately and his lips twitch into a dour grimace. "You're bruised," he states.

"Yeah, great observation there, Watson," he grumbles. "That's what happens when you slam people into the side of trucks and then proceed to drive recklessly." The comment is meant to be flippant, said offhandedly, but the growl that vibrates through Derek sends tendrils of fear down his spine. He takes a step back, rump hitting the counter. His eyes go wide with caution. "Uh, I mean, thanks for not letting the big bad wolf eat me?" he amends with a squeak.

Derek takes two steps forward, effectively trapping Stiles between the counter and his looming body. His eyes travel from the bruise on Stiles' forehead to his lips and then down the curve of his neck. It's unsettling and incredibly arousing to watch the way Derek's eyes roam over him like he's some sort of rare delicacy. His pupils dilate and nostrils flare. The next moment Derek is leaning down and pressing his nose into the tender flesh of his neck. A pleased rumble fights its way past Derek's lips and a huff of warm air blankets his skin, eliciting a shiver and sharp intake of breath.

Stiles doesn't get the opportunity to ask _what the hell_ because Derek has already pulled himself out of the crook of his neck and stalked away. Stiles is left standing there with the most awkward boner of his life and a vague sense of what the actual fuck. After a moment gaping stupidly at the space Derek had previously occupied, he walks over to the couch mechanically. He lays down and pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing a sigh.

Tomorrow he is going to get some damn answers out of Scott.

* * *

**Will update Tuesday. **

**Follow me on tumblr-URL: neuroticsourwolf**


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

Stiles wakes to the putrid smell of his own sweat and the soft pad of shuffling feet against wood. He scratches at the back of his head absently before hauling himself upright. He shrugs out of his sweltering winter jacket almost sluggishly. As the cool air wafts over his exposed and sweaty skin, he shivers. He begins to fan the front of his sweatshirt distractedly, letting out a disgruntled yawn. His gaze shifts to the kitchenette as he twists his body to get a better look over the back of the couch. The sight that greets him isn't one he'd been expecting.

Derek is moving towards him with something clasped in his hand. A towel is warped securely around his lower waist, droplets of water sliding down and over his toned chest. Stiles blinks and pinches his cheek. He winces. Not an absurdly hot dream, then. Derek places a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and toast down on the coffee table in front of him. "Breakfast," he grunts, before pulling back up to his full height. His nose twitches and his fingers flex as he stares down at Stiles. "The shower is through the left door."

Stiles thinks Derek may have gestured but he is way too distracted to pay proper attention. "Oh," he manages, staring shamelessly. "Thanks." He gulps. Derek's ridiculously hot body just may have short circuited his brain if the difficulty to form coherent sentences is any indication. Stiles never has any problem filling silence with sarcastic remarks and vaguely concealed geeky references.

Derek opens his mouth as if he is going to say something else but Scott comes barreling through the front door loud and obnoxious as ever. His mouth snaps shut once more and his lips wind into a grimace. He turns his back to Stiles and roams towards what can only be assumed is his bedroom. The door smashes closed with a slam.

Scott throws himself down on the couch next to Stiles, spying the food immediately. "Oh, dude, is this for me?" he asks, moving forward with the intention of stealing a piece of bacon, the thieving bastard.

"Get your own breakfast, bucko," Stiles says, moving the plate out of Scott's reach and swatting at his grubby little fingers.

Scott sits back with crossed arms. "Derek never made breakfast for me," he grumbles.

Stiles snorts before taking a bite of the bacon. It is greasy and perfect and just _unf_. Man can cook, that is for damn sure. "That's because you suck," he says and then grins as Scott swipes at him and misses.

Scott sighs loudly. "Nah, Derek and I naturally hate one another. His gaze is like a long suffering I-can't-believe-I'm-stuck-with-this-stupid-kid." Scott succeeds in stealing a piece of bacon while Stiles glares. "I'm serious, man. If he didn't have some weird messed up sense of duty he would have abandoned my ass a long time ago."

"You _are_ a special kind of dumbass," Stiles concedes, snacking on a piece of toast.

Scott scowls at him. "Hey," he protests.

Stiles laughs. "What? It's true."

"You're a dumbass too, dumbass," Scott retorts childishly as he steals the other piece of toast in retaliation.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I don't go on idiotic soul searching escapades and end up in deep shit which I adamantly refuse to explain to my _best friend_, all because some girl broke my heart among other assorted _woe is me_ bullshit." He glares and bites into another piece of bacon with an angry crunch.

Scott wilts. "Allison isn't just some girl."

"Yeah, yeah, she was the sun that shined out of your ass, I get it. At least you moved on, I was getting worried you'd end up in a mental hospital at the age of fifty, writing her name repeatedly on the walls all the while crying, _'my one true love!'_ dramatically," Stiles says wryly.

Scott's eyebrows scrunch up as if he's concentrating really hard on something that is particularly puzzling. "Moved on?" he questions. "What are you talking about?"

"Derek," Stiles says around a mouth full of food. He waves the last morsel of his toast around as if to drive the point home. "Duh."

Scott's face is stuck between scandalized and wanting to puke. "Gross!" he blanches. "What the hell, Stiles? I like _girls!_"

Stiles blinks. "So he didn't take your ass virginity in a spike of heated passion and then feel guilty, keeping you here out of some 'messed up sense of duty' as you put it?"

"What?! No! What goes on in that brain of yours, man?" Scott asks, looking positively mortified.

Stiles laughs out right. He shouldn't feel as relieved as he does so he tucks the feeling away in the _never going to analyze that ever, thanks_ part of his brain. "Well if he isn't banging your sweet, sweet ass—" Scott pulls a face "—then why are you staying here with no contact with the outside world?" Stiles eyes go wide in mock-horror. "Oh my god, is Derek running a freaky _cult? _More importantly, did you _join?_"

This time Scott does succeed in smacking him on the shoulder. It doesn't hurt even though Stiles expects it to.

"I didn't join a cult, man," Scott grumbles in a way that clearly means Stiles is being dramatic, but he's choosing to ignore it. "Derek's mentoring me," he continues, picking at Stiles' leftovers.

"Mentoring? What is he, your growly yoda?"

Scott laughs so hysterically tears shine in his eyes. "Oh man, that is _perfect_."

Stiles smiles briefly and then narrows his eyes. "You know you _are_ going to tell me what is going on at some point, right?"

Scott shrugs his shoulders and turns away from Stiles.

"_Scott_," Stiles says dangerously, crowding into his best friend's space. He is not above guilting the truth out of him. No sir_ee_.

Scott turns to face Stiles with a guilty frown. He opens his mouth to reply but Stiles beats him to the punch line. "You know what? I don't want to hear another one of your lame excuses. I'm going to take a shower. When I get out you had better tell me the truth or so help me I will tell your mom where you keep your secret stash of porn." Stiles gets to his feet with as much rage as he can muster and stomps towards the left most door in the room. He stops midway and twists his body ever so slightly to glower at Scott. "And it won't be the softcore one." He shuts the bathroom door with an angry slam. He can feel Scott's wince from the other side.

Mission accomplished.

Stiles strips tiredly, pulling off his smelly clothing layer after layer. He discards them on the floor, turns the shower's red knob to the right and waits for the water to warm. He steps inside when it's near scalding. The water pelts down on him mercilessly, burning away the previous day's grime and his growing irritation with Scott. He sighs, grabs Derek's minty body wash off the wall and slathers it across his body languidly. He scrubs at his skin lazily and then rinses apathetically. He feels clean but something still doesn't settle right in his gut. Stiles squeezes a dab of shampoo into the palm of his hand and works it through his buzz cut. He washes it out hastily, turns the water off and leans his forehead up against the warm, checkered tiles. He stays there for a minute or two, simply breathing in and out as he centers himself. He steps out of the shower then, into the mist.

It occurs to him as he reaches forward to wipe the fog from the mirror that he has no clean clothes to change into. He nabs a towel off the towel rack, dries his face and then wraps it around the lower half of his body. He looks up and stares into the circular opening of the fogged mirror. The bruise that rests on the upper right corner of his forehead sticks out like a sore thumb. It looks uglier than it feels so he pokes at it experimentally. A sharp pain greets his ministrations and elicits a grimace.

That is when he spots them, folded neatly and placed out of the way. Stiles spreads his fingers through the smooth fabric of the black long sleeved tee. He brings it to his nose and inhales. It smells vaguely of mint and the piercing scent that hangs in the air before a downpour. There is also an underlining current of something else he isn't able to identify. It rattles him. He pulls the shirt up and over his head before he can think on it too long. The shirt fits a bit too loosely. The collar sits too wide, exposing his neck and the concave where his shoulders and neck merge. The jeans, however, fit almost snugly, only too wide around the thigh area. They are old, he can tell, and worn with wear. They are nice and warm, however, and he wonders idly if they were left for him.

He opens the medicine cabinet, swipes the toothpaste and vigorously brushes his teeth as best as he can with his index finger. He swishes his mouth, spits, puts the toothpaste back where it belongs and reaches for the door knob. He pauses when he hears raised voices.

"I'm telling him and you're not going to stop me," Scott is saying. He sounds pissed; more so than usual.

Derek's response is quick and concise. "If you tell him, you're even stupider than I thought."

"He deserves to know," Scott snarls. And then, softly, "He's my best friend."

"Involving him will get him injured or worse, _dead_," Derek growls nastily. "That will be on _your_ head, not mine."

"I would never let that happen," Scott fires back confidently.

Stiles chooses that moment to swing the door open and step out into the fray. His presence brings their argument to a screeching halt. They both turn to look at him and honestly, he's never seen a guiltier pair. "Done arguing about what I should and should not know?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

Scott balls his hands into fists, glares prominently at Derek and then storms out of the cabin. The door clacks closed violently behind him. Stiles pulls a face as he saunters over to Derek. "Yeesh, someone's pissed. You should probably let him tell me. I'm going to find out on my own, one way or another," he grins cheekily. "You'll just get brownie points with Scott if you let him tell me."

Derek eyes him sharply, gaze disapproving. "You don't know what you're asking."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Can't make informed decisions if I'm not, y'know, _informed_."

Derek regards him with a dangerous level of frustration. His face scrunches up and yup, there is that constipated _I'm-feeling-emotion_ expression Stiles has come to associate with the growly, sinfully hot park ranger. Speaking of which, he lets himself give the other man an appraising look. Derek's uniform is sharp, pressed and form fitting. The off-beige dress shirt is tucked neatly into the military green slacks and it really isn't fair how well the colors complement Derek's complexion (I mean, _c'mon_!). A radio is attached to his belt, the adjoining receiver clipped to his collar, right above his gleaming gold badge. The campaign hat that sits on top of his head should look ridiculous but it only serves to be unreasonably flattering instead. There is only one thing about his attire that unnerves Stiles—Derek's gun holster is suspiciously lacking an actual _gun_.

"Where's your gun?" Stiles asks before he can stop himself.

"Don't need one," Derek replies immediately. He says it like that is a normal fucking response to such a question.

"_Sorry?_" Stiles says, face going screwy.

Derek's shoulders tense the moment he realizes his slip of tongue. He levels an intense glower in Stiles' direction and if a gaze could cause spontaneous human combustion, it would definitely be that one. Hot _damn_. "Prefer to wrestle crafty bears and rogue wolves instead?" Stiles questions and yeah, okay maybe he's being a little shit but Derek and his Big Important Secrets freaking deserve it.

"I'm taking you to get your stuff and then you're leaving," he says instead like that is the end of their discussion. Derek has no idea how incredibly _wrong_ he is.

"I'm not leaving," Stiles informs him with a shrug that says nice try though.

"It's not up for negotiation," Derek replies like he has some sort of sway over Stiles actions. Oh, man, is he in for the surprise of his life.

"You can't _make_ me leave."

Derek grins, all teeth. He taps his badge. "I can arrest you for trespassing and call your father, if you'd prefer."

Oh… that sneaky _bastard_. He wants to play that game, then. It is _so_ on like Donkey Kong. "You don't even know my name," he challenges.

Derek appears vaguely amused. "Don't I, _Stilinski?_" He bites Stiles' last name out carefully, enunciating every syllable. It sends a rush of warmth right to his dick.

_Shitballs. _

He glares and crosses his arms. "Then arrest me," he dares cockily.

And oh, crap, yeah, Stiles really doesn't like the dark glint taking Derek's eyes by storm.

He is _so_ screwed.

* * *

And that is how he ends up riding shotgun in Derek's truck with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"I really kind of hate you right now," Stiles seethes.

He glances to the side and confirms that Derek is barely containing a smirk of his own, the bastard. "You brought it on yourself," Derek rumbles, making Stiles want to punch him in the face.

The truck's heater is cranked up at least. It also helps that Derek was decent enough to allow him to shrug on a spare jacket before he attacked him, forced his wiry wrists into handcuffs and dragged him outside to the truck. If anything, the tussle had left him wondering what the hell kind of steroids the dude was on. It wasn't natural for _anyone_ to be that strong. He'd held Stiles down with one hand—_one!_ His male ego is forever ruined. Slashed to death. Goodbye. _Gone_. He has already mourned its passing. It had a good run.

Stiles' eyes flicker forward to the cracked windshield. "You should really get that fixed," he notes with a touch of boredom.

Derek ignores him and continues driving. _Fine_. It won't be his fault if Derek the Sour Ranger gets them both killed in a fiery, explosive car accident (complete with obnoxious sound effects and everything). He instead opts for pouting whilst looking out the passenger side window. It snowed overnight, blanketing the ground in a layer of fresh, bitter cold, and frozen winter wonder. Stiles lets himself get lost in the expansiveness of it; of the dusted trees and the never ending gray sky. Time passes swiftly. It takes Stiles a whole two minutes to realize the truck has stopped moving.

Derek clears his throat loudly. Stiles glowers and turns to him look at him with an acerbic expression. "So," Stiles begins conversationally, "are you going to uncuff me or are you going to haul all of my stuff on your own?" He smirks. "Don't get me wrong, I'm totally okay with watching you perform manual labor, but the cuffs are starting to chaff—" Derek ignores him, opens his door, lumbers out and pats it shut without a word "—and you're going to ignore me. Great."

After walking around the truck, Derek jerks Stiles' door open. "Out," he orders.

"Aw c'mon, you _cannot_ be serious," he whines, sliding off his seat with Derek's forceful assistance. His feet land squarely in a deep slush of snow, wetting his jeans. _Wonderful_. Derek tugs Stiles by his elbow into the underbrush and out of the road. He bats his eyelashes obnoxiously at Derek, matching him step for step. "I promise to behave," he coos.

Derek snorts and tightens his grip on Stiles' elbow. "I doubt that."

"What is the point of dragging me out of the truck and into the cold if I only get to _stand and watch?_" Stiles asks, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. "Seriously, Derek, think about this for a moment—" Stiles cuts himself off when a surprised scream of rage explodes from his lungs. The campsite is _not_ how he left it. In fact, it's _destroyed_ in every sense of the word. Stiles wants to weep. "What the _fuck_," he screeches instead, his voice reaching octaves he didn't know where previously possible.

He turns to blame Derek loudly, with several choice swear words, but he has already abandoned Stiles to prowl around the campsite. The tent is shredded, his clothes strewn all over the place, ripped and bloody. Even his dad's lantern is broken into about a million pieces (he is so dead _oh my god_). Stiles can't even slap himself back into reality on account that his hands are still cuffed behind his back. All he can do is gape at the destruction and wonder what the hell he did in his past lives to deserve this, by _god_. "My dad is going to kill me," he groans, saying a silent prayer for his young soul.

Then Derek does something quite odd. He starts picking up various articles of Stiles' clothing, pressing them into his nose and _inhaling._ After each piece of clothing he smells (what the hell, dude) his expression grows angrier and angrier until a low, scary growl emits from within his chest. Derek stops in front of a particularly large tree and looks up, scowling. Stiles follows his gaze and then grimaces because _really?_ His favorite black tee (the one with _there is no place like 127. 0. 0. 1 _ printed on the front) is hanging from the tree like some sort of creepy promise. The front of it is maimed by ragged claw marks and gooey, black blood drips from it with a sense of foreboding.

That sets Derek _off_. A dark, animalistic growl rips from his throat. The sound slams against Stiles' ears with such intensity he swears something ruptures. He winces and stumbles backwards, heart beating wildly in his chest. Derek turns on him and wow okay, are his eyes _normally_ that blue? His teeth snap wildly, long and canine like as his face contorts and shifts horribly. It's grotesque and freaky and _what the fuck_ Derek is stomping towards him, the growling vibrating louder and louder holy _crap_.

Stiles does the only thing he can think to—he _runs_.

The underbrush catches his legs, slashing and tearing at the worn fabric of his borrowed jeans as he flees. Branches smack him in the face, slicing his cheek; snow pelts him from above as he accidentally clips a tree with his right shoulder. His breathing has become rapid and he is _freaking the fuck out _because _holy shit_. The truck is just within his sights, a relieved smile already curling upwards on his lips when he's seized by the back of his jacket, swung around and slammed up against a tree. "Stiles," Derek snarls into his face, "_stop running_."

Stiles gasps for air, eyes searching Derek's wildly, heart drumming like a frightened jackrabbit. "Your eyes," he manages, still panicked. "And your _teeth!_"

A brief glimpse of guilt flashes in Derek's eyes. "I lost control," he rumbles slowly. "It won't happen again."

Stiles' mind is still running a freaking marathon. "Lost control?" he shrieks. "Of _what?!_"

Derek sighs and appears weary. "If I tell you," he says deeply, eyes freakishly intent. "There is no going back."

Stiles laughs at that. _Laughs_. "I think we are _way_ past the point of no return, buddy," he snaps. "Don't you think?"

With their chests pressed tight against one another, he can feel the way Derek's growl vibrates throughout the entirety of his body. "When people tell you not to be afraid of the monster under the bed because they aren't real," Derek begins as he leans in so close their noses touch, "they're lying."

Stiles swallows. Welcome to Sunnydale. Enjoy your stay, try not to get killed. He squints his eyes, trying to appear brave even while his heart stutters in fear. "Then what are you? A vampire? I knew I shouldn't have thrown away my stake," he laughs nervously, "rookie mistake."

Derek's lips twitch. He almost looks like he wants to laugh. "Vampires don't exist," he grunts.

"Bummer," Stiles jokes lightly. "Then _what_ are you?"

Derek hesitates before saying, "a werewolf."

Stiles narrows his eyes. "Are you seriously telling me vampires don't exist but werewolves do? _Come on!_"

"Yes."

Stiles frowns. "So, you're a werewolf, huh?" He really thinks he ought to be having some sort of freak out at this point. But he isn't and he supposes that's something he should be proud of. His eyes widen with a sudden realization. "Is Scott a werewolf, too?" he asks and then, "_dude_, did you turn him in some effort to create a creep—"

"I did_ not_ turn Scott," Derek snarls, grinding Stiles' body harder into the bark of the tree.

Stiles winces. "Then who did?"

"An Alpha," Derek supplies. "It has gone rogue, half crazed with the need to make a new pack. Scott was unfortunate collateral."

Stiles sags against the tree. "Well then, this is just a shot in the dark, but I'm gonna assume the creepy mutant wolf that attacked us last night is the Alpha?"

Derek nods stiffly.

"Also probably the one that ripped all of my belongings to shreds?"

"Yes," Derek affirms with a growl, teeth snapping angrily.

"What the hell does it have against _me_," Stiles complains, shifting his weight uncomfortably and straining against the handcuffs.

He looks up just in time to see something twist in Derek's expression. He appears almost pained by the rage that ripples across his face. "It wants _you_," he forces out, words tearing past his lips like a punishment. And then he dips his head to graze against the underside of Stiles' throat, nose pressing into the hard line of his jaw. He breathes in as if his life depends on it, a small, pleased noise escaping the back of his throat when he exhales. His hands snake around Stiles' waist, slipping under the layers of his clothing and traveling upwards, touch feather light. Stiles trembles involuntarily at the caress; his breath quickens, harsh and wild.

"Derek, _really_," Stiles manages to huff out half-indignantly, "again with the _manhandling?_"

The tongue comes out then, sliding along Stiles' neck warm and wet. It leaves a trail of heat behind as it journeys down to his shoulder. Derek hovers there idly before pressing his lips full against Stiles' searing skin. He begins to suck leisurely, taking his time holy _god_. Stiles can feel the pull of Derek's mouth on his skin, the scrap of his teeth against it and the swift movement of his swirling tongue. Derek pulls back, huffs a damp breath over the teased flesh and transfers his attentions back to the crook of Stiles' neck. He bites down with blunt teeth, provoking a surprised yelp from Stiles.

"_Derek_," Stiles snaps with more force this time, jerking his head away from where he is being freaking _bitten_. He doesn't remember signing up for this kinky shit.

Derek growls in warning, teeth tightening around the soft underside of Stiles' neck.

"Okay, okay, _sheesh_," Stiles relents, going slack in Derek's grasp. He can feel the sharp edges of Derek's nails ghosting over the expanse of his back. The caress is sharp as it prickles his skin, eliciting gooseflesh in one shuddering response. Stiles doesn't deny that in feels absurdly wonderful, even to himself.

Derek pushes in closer, maneuvering his thigh between Stiles' legs and nudging it up against his crotch. Stiles feel something very large and very hard pressing in against his own thigh and it is most assuredly _not_ Derek's cellphone. _Christ_. Stiles feels his own arousal spike despite himself and he groans as Derek twitches against him. The friction nearly kills him. A breathy moan slips past his mouth unintentionally and _woah_, Derek really likes when he makes that sort of noise. Derek hums throatily in return, finally releasing Stiles' neck from between his teeth. He trails upwards with small nips down the line of his jaw until his lips are hovering just over Stiles. He stares at Stiles, ring of blue pulsating—

"_Officer Hale_," Derek's receiver cracks horribly, "_we have a 504 in lot four of camper parking, do you read?_"

There is a long, tense pause wherein neither of them move. Their breaths simply mingle, warm and inviting.

"_Officer Hale_," the receiver repeats, "_do you copy?_"

Derek growls nastily, tears his gaze away from Stiles and snatches at the receiver with an irritated grapple. "I copy," he says through clenched teeth, "license plate, vehicle color, make and model?"

"_Sam-Tom-1-Lincoln-3-Sam_," the voice replies through bad, crackling reception. "_'85 blue Jeep Wrangler CJ-7._"

"That's my car," Stiles states, dumbfounded. And then, hysterically, "_That's my car!_"

"On my way," Derek responds into the receiver as he takes a step back from Stiles. His face is normal once more, no freakishly sharp teeth or ridiculously blue eyes; just grumpy Derek who is frowning at him, eyebrows furrowed like he doesn't know how to proceed.

Stiles is too busy freaking out to give a rat's ass. "Code 504, _damnit_, why did it have to be tampering with a vehicle?! My poor baby!" he wails at the sky.

Derek glowers a little while longer before he turns silently and stalks off towards the truck.

"Hey!" Stiles shouts after him. "Now would be a great time to _uncuff me!_"

* * *

They spend the ride to the parking lot in tense silence. Stiles fidgets incessantly, showing an incredible amount of restraint when he doesn't brush his fingers against the two burning bruises on his neck and shoulder. Derek had (mercifully) unclasped his handcuffs without a word. He also managed to avoid Stiles' gaze and make _him_ feel like he was the one that mauled Derek shamelessly with his mouth. In the middle of the woods. Without explanation. He itches to ask about it, but one look at Derek's dark scowl disperses any and all of his misguided curiosity; for the moment, anyway.

The second they pull into the lot, Stiles heart sinks. The front of his Jeep's hood is ripped upwards and _Jesus_, it looks like half of his damn engine is missing. He throws his hands hand in the air and wails. "What the hell does this thing have against automotive vehicles?!" He fights with the door and then barrels out. "_Shit!_"

He sulks his way over to the car when a woman steps in front of him, blocking his path. "Stop right there," she says, eyes narrowing. "This is a crime scene." She states it as if he is an actual moron and not worth her time.

Stiles' face sours. "It's _my_ car," he seethes, gesturing towards the vehicle with an angry jerk.

"Is it?" The woman's asks, arching a perfectly manicured brow. She twists her evilly red lips into an amused smirk. "Well, doesn't your day just suck? Got any enemies I should know about?"

Stiles' eye twitches at that. "Yes," he says sarcastically. "I'm a regular James Bond. Seen any ugly guys with cats skulking about lately?"

"Erica, leave him alone," comes Derek's distinctive rumble from behind him.

She laughs playfully. "Why should I? He's cute when antagonized."

"Erica," Derek warns and if Stiles sticks out his tongue in retaliation, well, no one but Erica sees.

She rolls her eyes. "Engines totaled. The tires were slashed with animal claws, far as I can tell. Nothing appears to have been taken from inside the vehicle but, whatever managed this did one hell of a work over on the paint job." She gestures to the ugly scrapes on the other side of the Jeep with an admiring tut.

Stiles suddenly feels so very defeated. He doesn't have the energy for this bullshit at the moment. He smiles cynically at Derek. "Guess I'm not leaving after all?" he hazards.

Derek ignores him in favor of responding to Erica. "Have it towed to Boyd's. Tell him to send the bill to me."

Erica's eyes dart to Stiles and she grins wickedly. "Oh," she purrs, "alright then." She starts towards Stiles, flicks him playfully on the neck and then saunters to her squad car, prominent smirk in place.

Stiles blushes furiously and mashes his teeth together angrily as he turns his gaze on Derek. "What do you think you're doing," he bites out.

Derek merely looks pissed, but hey, what does Stiles know? That is the guy's freaking default expression. "Don't argue with me on this, Stiles," he grounds out roughly.

"I'll argue about what I damn well please," Stiles snaps in return, glaring hotly as he crowds into Derek's face. "Actually, I am getting real tired of you telling me what to do, of you slamming me into things and _oh yeah_, freaking sniffing and biting me." Stiles clicks his teeth together and flattens his lips into a thin, angry line. "But, I guess we're not going to talk about that, are we? 'Cause Derek Hale doesn't do conversation or emotions, big fucking surprise!"

If looks could murder, he would be deader than dead under Derek's glare.

"That's what I thought," Stiles says, enunciating each word with a click and pop. He pulls away from Derek just as the other man's nostrils flair. Stiles stomps to the truck's door and wrenches it open with a jerk. "You wanted me to leave? Well, you succeeded, _congratulations_. Take me back to your piece of crap cabin so I can call my dad and get the hell out of here." He slams the truck door as hard as he can. Fucking Derek Hale. He wants to scream until his teeth fall out.

Derek simply stands there for a beat, scowl intensifying. He meanders over to the truck eventually and climbs in with an angry, jerking motion. He starts the truck and then they are on their way.

It is the longest, most uncomfortable ride of Stiles' life. And he's including that one time he tried to shoplift and got caught by the Sheriff, _his dad_.

When they pull up to the cabin, Derek tenses and scents the air. He glances at Stiles, who glares back at him. He huffs crossly and slides out of the car. Stiles follows suit. Derek becomes increasingly edgier the closer they draw to the front door. When they cross through the entrance way, Stiles sees why.

A man is sitting at the breakfast table, legs crossed. A predatory smirk plays on his lips.

Derek moves to stand in front of Stiles protectively. "Peter," he snarls.

Peter tuts his tongue disapprovingly. "Now Derek," he drawls, "is that any way to greet your uncle?"

* * *

**Finished this quicker than I anticipated. So, yay? Just in case anyone is wondering, Stiles' license plate,translated out of police code is ST1-L3S. Reviews loved, concrit welcome.**

**Follow me on Tumblr. My URL is neuroticsourwolf.  
**

**Will update within the week. :)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

"You shouldn't be here," Derek says, tone tight and controlled. His back muscles tense, telling a completely different story from Stiles' vantage point. Stiles frowns and moves to step around him but Derek's arm shoots out to prevent him from doing so. "Stay," he orders, keeping his eyes trained on Peter.

Stiles pushes past him without bothering to conceal his growing annoyance. Derek's alpha male bravado is already starting to rub him the wrong way. "No," he tells him obstinately with a glare.

Peter chuckles at Stiles' blatant disobedience. "Well, isn't this interesting," he hums, gaze settling on Stiles' neck with an obvious leer. "I suppose _he_ is the reason your homely abode smells like—"

"Peter," Derek cuts in dangerously. Stiles glances at him and the malice marring Derek's features makes uneasiness pool in his gut. "Tell me what you've come for and then _leave_."

Peter sighs through upturned lips. "So touchy," he says with the wave of a hand. "How your mother raised you to be so disrespectful is _beyond_ me."

Derek continues growl, the noise low and rough in his throat.

Peter tilts his head. "Very well," he says, giving in too easily. "She heard you were having," he pauses and flickers his eyes briefly to Stiles before continuing vaguely, "an _issue_ … so she dispatched me to help you be rid of it."

Derek straightens out at that, body going rigid. "I don't need your help."

Peter clicks his tongue. "Oh, but I think you _do_."

"Mother wouldn't have sent you," Derek says, eyes narrowing. "She would have sent Laura."

"You wound me," Peter says, smiling. "Laura is busy. So you get me. Don't look so thrilled," he mocks dryly. "Besides, I have information essential to your success. But, you're right. You don't _need_ me. I'll just show myself out…" Peter stands and starts towards to door, taking slow and even steps.

"Wait," Stiles calls, stopping Peter's retreat. He turns to peer at Stiles. "Derek might not want your assistance, but _I_ sure as hell do."

Peter's eyebrows rise at that. "Do you now?"

"Stiles," Derek seethes under his breath, "_shut up_."

"No, do go on," Peter urges with a predacious smile.

Stiles holds Peter's gaze even though the serious creeper vibes coming off the guy make his skin crawl. "What do you know about the Alpha? Do you know what—_who_—it is?"

"Derek told you about us," he hums, "how _curious_." Peter's gaze slides to the right, pausing on Derek for a beat. If Stiles thought the guy's smile was creepy before, Peter just managed to up the creep factor by a gazillion with the way he's leering at his own nephew, _Jesus_.

Derek stiffens. "It was necessary," he says tightly.

"Yeah, after he full on wolfed out in front of me," Stiles offers, hoping Peter will refocus his stare on him because it is seriously pissing him off the way he's watching Derek. Which is totally disturbing in of itself—since when did he start to care how others looked at Derek? He's known the guy for two days, _seriously_. Stiles pinches his face and rubs his left shoulder with his right hand, fidgeting nervously.

"Stiles," Derek snaps at him, eyes communicating murder.

"What?" he huffs. "It's not my fault you have horrible impulse control."

Peter is grinning now, eyes glowing bright blue and teeth sharping to scary points. "Allow me to extend my welcome," he purrs, stepping towards Stiles with his hand extended in greeting. As he closes in on him, Derek steps in between them, teeth barred.

"Alright, alright I get it," Peter says, hands up and face reverting back to normal as he steps back. "The 'do-not-touch' mark on his throat speaks loud and clear, nephew." Peter doesn't appear at all threatened by Derek, only mildly amused.

"'Do no touch'?" Stiles repeats, smacking Derek on the back. "What the hell, dude?"

Derek's ears flush bright red to Stiles' surprise and he clears his throat awkwardly. "It was for protection," he says deeply, frowning as he avoids looking Stiles directly in the eye.

Peter snorts. _Snorts_.

Derek glares, growl once again reverberating from deep within his diaphragm.

Stiles purposefully ignores the way his heart rate increases and throws his hands up in the air. "Enough with the growling already," he chastises, patting Derek on the shoulder as he moves to stand beside him.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Derek spares him an annoyed side eye but makes no move shake his hand off. Weirdly, Stiles doesn't want to stop touching Derek and his chest jumps alarmingly at the thought. He removes his hand so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. Derek doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the loss of touch which makes Stiles' heart constrict painfully. And if that isn't disconcertingly bizarre on _so_ many levels, he doesn't know what is.

Stiles clears his throat and focuses his attentions back on Peter. "Well," he begins, "since there's a rogue Alpha on the loose and all—care to tell us what you know oh, _I don't know_, sometime this century?"

"Cheeky," Peter says, nodding in approval. "I like you."

"The feeling is so not mutual, dude," Stiles replies, crossing his arms and frowning.

Derek almost looks smug.

"Shall we talk over dinner?" Peter asks, gesturing to the four to-go boxes sitting on the counter. "I bought Thai on the way over."

Stiles face brightens at the mention of food. He leaves Derek's side to hover over the to-go boxes. After he peeks underneath every lid, he settles on the Shrimp Pad Thai. He snatches up the box and plasticware before plopping down at the breakfast table with a wide grin. God, he's _starving_; which is insane because it's only two in the afternoon and he ate a few hours ago. However, he's a growing boy so his excessive appetite it excusable.

Stiles has a mouth full of fried noodles dangling from his chin when Derek slams his to-go box down next to him. "Stop stalling," he snaps at Peter, "and spit it out already."

Peter sits opposite both of them and just _smiles_ eerily. The guy's smiles are seriously disturbing him. Stiles isn't sure what it is about the way his lips curve upwards, but dude, that is freaky pedophile-next-door material right there.

Derek stabs his food angrily. "Well?" he prods, lips twitching with thinly veiled rage.

"You remember Alpha Remus, I assume?" Peter starts lightly, clapping his hands together and leaning forward.

Derek grunts a yes.

"He, along with his entire pack, was killed little over a month ago." Peter's features darken, his lips thin out and his irises flash deadly blue before he composes himself. "At first we suspected hunters but there was something very _peculiar_ about it all. The manner in which Remus had been murdered screamed he'd been killed by another werewolf—yet the rest of his pack lay around his carcass, dead and all accounted for."

"Hun-mph-ters?!" Stiles exclaims as he almost chokes on his food. Because, _what?!_ He looks wildly at Derek who silences him with one of his annoyed _not-right-now_ glares.

"Omega," Derek says automatically, pushing his food away with a grimace.

Peter smirks. "That is exactly what Laura said."

Derek sits back, eyes calculating. "It's the only explanation that makes sense."

"Unless," Peter drawls.

Stiles leans in, eyes bugged out as he listens attentively and gulps down the rest of his meal. "Un-mph-less?" he urges around his mouth full of food.

"We found several more bodies in the surrounding woods. Human. Every single one of them had been bitten, two died from the transformation and the other three silt their own throats." Peter leans back, eyebrows raised. "Now tell me, why would an Omega kill the Alpha's pack, the Alpha, and then try and turn _hunters?_"

Derek makes a harsh sound in the back of his throat, twists his lips into a grim frown and furrows his eyebrows in consideration.

Stiles swallows the rest of his food in one gulp. "Maybe aliens did it?" he suggests. Derek glowers at him and Peter smirks. "What?" he says, half offended. "If freaking werewolves can exist, who's to say E.T. isn't a homicidal murderer that traveled through space to become a werewolf?" Stiles pauses, wrinkling his brows. "How do you become a werewolf anyway?" He scowls at Derek, who is still glaring at him. "We never got that far in our Werewolves Are Real And The Alpha Wants You In His Creepy Pack speech."

Derek kicks him under the table, _the asshole_.

"Derek and I were born werewolves. It is in our DNA, the very fabric of who we are. We have never been human," Peter informs him. "However, in order for a human to become a werewolf they must be bitten by an Alpha. The bite either turns them or kills them." He says it so very casually, as if the threat of death isn't horrible at all. Oh no, just regular conversation. Move along, nothing to see here.

"Dude, that is beyond fucked up," Stiles replies, leaning back in his chair uncomfortably and glancing curiously at Derek, who only grimaces back at him in return.

"To you, perhaps." Peter cocks his head to the side and lets his gaze linger on Stiles. He's silent for several moments before he speaks. "The Alpha wants you." It is not a question.

And, great, Derek's back to growling again.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Would you quit that?" he complains, nudging Derek in the side with his elbow.

"No," Derek retorts.

"Whatever, you overgrown man-child."

Derek bares his teeth at him. "_You're_ the child."

"Children," Peter interrupts, "do behave."

Derek and Stiles both glare at him simultaneously.

Peter straightens out the front of his blazer and gets to his feet. "I've a phone call to make," he announces suddenly, suspicious glint in his eyes. "I'll just be moment, no need to miss me."

Derek snorts and—consciously or subconsciously, Stiles isn't sure—leans in closer to him. Peter pulls a cellphone from his pocket and saunters out the front door. The mood without him is surprisingly ambient.

Stiles sighs, darts his eyes from Derek's unfinished meal to his face. "You going to finish that?"

Derek slides the box over without a word.

* * *

By the time Peter reenters the cabin, Stiles has finished off the rest of Derek's leftovers and migrated to the couch. Derek had followed him, sitting on the opposite end, grumpy frown in place. If Stiles was disappointed that he'd chosen not to sit down next to him, well, he'll just keep that to himself.

"Who did you call?" Derek asks, glowering at Peter.

"No one of consequence," Peter replies. He stops at the couch, hovering right behind where Stiles is sitting. "Why? Worried?"

Derek's lips twist back into a soundless snarl.

Peter chuckles.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Could the two of you quit your metaphorical pissing contest?" Thankfully, neither of them feels the compulsion to answer his rhetorical question. Stiles pulls his knees into his chest and grumbles to himself. His earlier irritation is back. Leave it to Scott to get him sucked into some sort of freaky supernatural war. Worse still, is leaving him to deal with awkward werewolf family relations by his lonesome. He wants to bang his head against a wall. No, scratch that—he wants to bang _Scott's_ head against a wall. Repeatedly. Preferably while laughing manically.

Perhaps the most awful of all is the way he can feel Peter's demented laser beam eyes boring into the back of his skull. He twitches and turns his body as far away from the other man as possible. His whole body itches and he just wishes that Peter would go far, far away from him _damnit_. He feels uncomfortable and hot all over. His stomach twists fretfully so he begins to tap his fingers anxiously in an effort to distract himself.

"Stiles," Derek rumbles, his voice greeting Stiles' ears like an old, familiar friend which is _weird_ and doesn't make _sense_. He stares at him just as Peter is, but his gaze is somehow _different_. It doesn't set him on edge or freak him out. Instead, it pulls at something inside of him—something he can't quite place—and bleeds the tension from his shoulders.

Derek breaks his gaze to regard Peter with a touch of irritation. "Quit staring," he demands, voice scratchy and deep.

"Was I?" Peter questions offhand. He smirks, the bastard. He knows exactly how uncomfortable his creepy staring was making him.

"Yes," Derek says, tone clipped, "you were."

Peter hums and moves away from the couch, instead choosing to loom in the corner of the kitchenette.

Derek frowns and removes his campaign hat from his head, setting it on the coffee table with a gentle hand. He shifts awkwardly for a moment, looks as if he is going to say something before frowning and sinking back into the couch, expression dour.

It is silent for several uncomfortable minutes.

"Well," Stiles pipes up, "this isn't awkward or anything."

Derek glares pointedly at Peter, who heaves a sigh. "All you two lovebirds had to say was you need a little _alone time_," he says, making eyes at Stiles while pulling a smarmy grin.

Stiles flushes. "_What_—lovebirds?!—what—"

"Go find Scott," Derek growls at Peter, interrupting Stiles' sputtering.

"And where would I find your little protégé?" Peter asks lightly.

"Figure it out," Derek snarls as he turns away from him, effectively ending the conversation.

Peter mouths the words at Derek's back mockingly. He spares Stiles a smirk, crosses the room and vanishes through the front door, pep in his step.

Stile shudders. "Is your whole family that creepy or is dear old Uncle Peter just a special basket case?"

"He has his reasons," Derek responds, being purposely vague _as usual_.

"So," Stiles drawls, "werewolves. Feel like elaborating? Sharing? Maybe? No? Okay. That's fine. One just wants to bite me, possible maim me, it's cool. I'm totally okay with being a scary, growling, glowy-eyed werewolf chew toy. Definitely makes my top ten list of shit I wanted to happen in my life."

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles swears he sees an almost-smile. He relaxes for the first time and levels his gaze on Stiles. "What do you want to know?"

Stiles has never smiled so big in his life.

He spends the next couple of hours quizzing Derek on everything that pops into his head, which includes a few choice topics that make Derek's face flush and sputter incoherently. ("Where did you even _hear_ about half of that?" "The internet man, surely you've heard of it?") He learns that in a pack there are Alphas and Betas; lone wolves without a pack are called Omegas. Derek explains that the reason the rogue Alpha is so desperate for willing members is because the bigger the pack, the stronger the Alpha.

So the evening goes, Stiles chatting away while Derek nods and grunts his way through the rapid fire questioning. ("Any superwolf powers I should be aware of?" "Superwolf? Really?" "Dude, you _so_ have some sort of weird wolf superpowers!") Stiles feels at ease as his mind whirls away, absorbing all of Derek's answers with his sponge of a brain. He finds werewolf anatomy especially fascinating. Derek even slices open his palm to demonstrate their accelerated healing which, so _cool_, holy shit. ("Do it again!" "_Stiles_.") Eventually they ease into casual conversation and Stiles' questions go from supernatural in origin to simple, ordinary questions you'd ask any new acquaintance.

"Ugh," Stiles groans at long last, "throat's dry." He clears his throat. "Guess I've been talking too much," he admits sheepishly.

Derek smirks at him indulgently, eyes going soft. "You _are_ allowed to get water," he tells him, arching an amused brow.

"Ha _ha_," Stiles retorts. "I was under the impression I was your prisoner." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and hops to his feet, padding over to the kitchen sink. He shuffles through the cabinets until he finds a clean glass and turns on the faucet. He hums to himself as he watches the glass fill with water. Suddenly, foreign fingers are brushing over the nape of his neck and he jerks at the unexpected touch, glass slipping from his grasp. It clatters into the sink with a jarring _clang_. The fingers tighten around his neck when he tries to turn around.

"Don't move," Derek husks into his ear, warm breath ghosting over the exposed expanse of his neck. Stiles freezes as Derek pushes in closer, forcing his front to bump against the counter. He feels Derek's body flush against him, solid and warm. He swallows thickly, fighting off his own surmounting arousal as best he can. He loses that battle when Derek leans forward, presses his face into a sensitive patch of skin, and inhales deeply. His hands wind around Stiles' torso, fingers fondling with the hem of his jeans.

Stiles finds his voice then. "O-Okay," he stammers, "care to explain the sniffing and excessive touching?" Not that he's complaining, _per se_, but damn if he isn't confused. Trust his traitorous body to melt against Derek's like their bodies pressed together is the most natural thing in the world. It's freaking him out how _not freaked out_ he is.

Derek stiffens against him as if suddenly realizing _he is shamelessly groping Stiles_. Quite enthusiastically, to boot.

"Do I smell like thanksgiving dinner or something?" he asks with a nervous twinge. He gulps, back tracking. "Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know if I smell like turkey. That would be… weird. Yeah. Definitely weird. I don't smell like turkey, do I? Oh god, I _do_, don't I?"

"Stiles," Derek groans against his neck and, oh, well, that feels… nice. He swallows again, because yeah, shit, he's already at half-mast.

"Sorry," Stiles apologizes, "I babble when I'm nervous. And you, ah, you make me nervous? So incredibly nervous." His voice increases in pitch as he speaks, heart hammering in his chest like a ricocheting bullet.

Derek grips Stiles' hips hard enough to bruise and mouths at his skin with increasing vigor. "_Shit_, Stiles," he moans. _Moans_—for crying out loud! "Your scent is—" he cuts himself abruptly, lurching away from Stiles in one quick (awful, _awful_) movement. Stiles whimpers at the loss of touch and peers over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed, his dick standing at attention and _Jesus_ he wants Derek touching him again like _right fucking now_.

Those thoughts get shot straight to hell, however, when Stiles takes in Derek's expression. His nostrils are flared, his eyes have gone wide, glowing brilliant blue as his ears lengthen to points. His lips slowly rear back into a snarl and he almost looks alarmed. "Derek?" Stiles asks cautiously. "Why are you all… _wolfy_?"

"Blood," Derek snarls, "I smell blood."

Stiles pales. "What?"

As if on cue, the front door bangs open, revealing Scott who has Peter sagging at his side, arm slung underneath his armpits in an effort to keep him up right. Peter's entire right side is coated in startling crimson and his shirt is torn beyond recognition. His eyes lull back in pain as he groans, the sound of it garbled and horrible. The skin around the wound is frayed and grotesque. Stiles stares a little too long and almost loses his lunch all over the hard wood floor.

Scott lays Peter on the couch gently and Stiles silently mourns the upholstery as he bleeds all over it. Derek is on the other side of the room in flurry of movement, his hand fisting into Scott's shirt as he snarls, "_what happened?_"

"He ambushed us," Scott rasps, fear rattling in the timbre of his voice. His eyes shine a brilliant gold as he flickers his gaze to Stiles. Suddenly he's tearing away from Derek and stomping over towards him. His hands land on Stiles' shoulder with surprising gentleness. "Don't freak out," Scott says, doing a really horrible job of not freaking out himself. "But there are people and wolves and people who turn into—"

"Scott," Stiles interjects, "I know you're a teenage mutant ninja werewolf."

For a moment, Scott merely gapes at him and then he turns a sharp glare on Derek. "You _told_ him?!"

"Not the time McCall," Derek growls, glaring Scott into submission.

"Dude," Scott says abruptly, staring at Stiles' throat, "what happened to your neck?"

Stiles blinks at Scott, allows his brain to catch up and then flushes in embarrassment. "Uh—I—_uh_—" he stumbles, eyes darting towards Derek against his will.

Scott follows his gaze and then his eyes widen in realization. "No," he says, face scrunching up in disbelief. And then, "really?"

Derek is burning a hole into the side of his head so Stiles just gulps down the suffocating panic within his chest and manages a small, awkward nod.

"Woah Stiles, I didn't know you were into gu—"

"—as heartwarming as your conversation is… surely it can wait until I'm no longer spilling my insides all over my nephews couch?" Peter interrupts, still managing to be a snarky bastard even while bleeding to death.

Scott has the peace of mind to at least appear sheepish. "Sorry," he murmurs, shuffling away from Stiles and back towards the couch.

Stiles frowns. "Why isn't he healing?" he asks Derek.

"Alpha bites are different," Derek replies stiffly. "We heal slower when wounded by one." He bends down then and presses his fingers into Peter's wound. Stiles watches in wonder as Derek's veins bleed to black, pulsing and throbbing up the length of his arm. His face is pensive, intently focused as he frowns heavily in muted discomfort.

Peter seems to relax somewhat as the haze fades from his eyes. Derek goes to retract his arm but halts when Peter's hand snaps outward to grapple for his forearm. "Thank you…" he croaks, giving a weak squeeze before letting his arm fall back down to his side once more.

Derek nods.

"What did you just do?" Stiles questions immediately. He is barely able to contain his excitement. "'Cause that was _wicked!_"

"I took some of his pain," Derek responds, flexing his hand and wincing, "he should be able to heal much quicker now."

That is when Stiles notices Derek looks more than a bit ashen. He moves towards him and places a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

Derek relaxes into his touch. "I'm fine," he grunts in reply.

"Really? Because you don't look like you're fine at all," Stiles states. He catches Derek's startled gaze as he shifts to look at him.

Derek swallows as his face tightens. "I will be," he assures, staring at Stiles as if he is something of wonder, something to be cherished. It does funny things to his insides and he has to look away before his heart jumps out through his mouth.

"Guys," Scott says, on the edge of panic. "We don't have time for this! I wasn't able to mask our scents so the Alpha is probably on his way—"

Two distinct howls reverberate from the outside of the cabin.

"—here," Scott finishes with a whine. "Crap!"

Derek's face morphs in a split second, twisting into something more than human: something almost entirely animalistic. Stiles takes a startled breath and steps back in amazement. A quick glance at Scott confirms he has shifted as well, his own face mirroring Derek's in its abnormality. Everything strikes him as so very surreal. Stiles pinches himself just to make sure he is, in fact, not hallucinating.

And suddenly Derek is all up in his face, teeth snapping and eyes boring into him. "Stay here," he growls, reminding Stiles just how inhuman he is. "Do not, under any circumstance, leave the cabin," he grips Stiles' shoulder tightly, "do you understand me?"

Stiles scoffs, indigent. "You think you can order me around?" he challenges. Not that he's going to play the hero, cause let's face it, he isn't one. He isn't particularly brave either, to be quite frank.

"I'm serious," Derek snarls, shaking him with more force than necessary.

"Right. Human, squishy and breakable. Gotcha," Stiles grumbles to himself.

Derek walks away from him in a huff, turns to face Scott and signals towards the front door. Scott nods in agreement. Derek throws out his arms dramatically (Stiles just barely holds back a snort) and his nails grow into sharp, dangerous points. He throws Stiles once last glance before stalking out of the cabin with purpose.

Scott goes to follow suit, briefly stopping before Stiles to say "don't be a dumbass," and then he's flying out the door, his own claws extended.

"Great," Stiles mutters, glaring at Peter. "Guess I'm stuck with you?"

Peter gives him a toothy, pained grin. "I didn't take you for one to give up so easily."

That gets Stiles' attention. "Well, unlike you, I actually rather like my insides to _stay on the inside my body_," he counters.

Peter chuckles at that and casts his gaze skyward.

Stiles' body tenses when he hears the first signs of a fight erupting just beyond the thin wooden walls. The sounds are chilling, all scrapping noises and growling; howls of pain, roars of vengeance. He curls both hands into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of Scott being torn to pieces or Derek writhing in pain as a freaking rogue Alpha tears out his throat. He can feel the panic building in the back of his throat, the ever present reminder that no one is immortal. That someone he values, loves, can be torn away from him with so little effort.

He opens his eyes with a gasp and suddenly the world is exploding in a rush of violence and shattering glass. It is as if times ceases to be tangible and the timeline slows, happening in vicious bursts of action. He sees the man before him, _comprehends_ that he isn't human, that he is a werewolf and he should be terrified of the blood dripping from its mouth, of the way its golden eyes narrow with malicious intent. But he can't move; he's frozen. His heart slows and his fingers twitch. And then everything just _moves_. His legs fumble without his permission, dragging him towards the fireplace to his immediate right. His fingers are curling around a fire iron and then he's swinging with everything he has. The iron makes contact with the werewolf's head and a sickening _crack!_ resounds.

Stiles drops the fire iron in surprise as pain blasts in rough bursts from his wrist. He notes absently that it's probably broken as he watches the werewolf stumble back a few paces, looking momentarily dazed.

Peter is there in front of him suddenly. "Go!" he shouts and Stiles doesn't think twice, he bolts through the gaping hole in the wall. He only just keeps from tripping all over himself, arms flailing as he steps outside into the fading light of sunset. He sees Scott, registers that he's unhurt and he scans for Derek, stumbling his away towards his regulation vehicle, head buzzing and wrist throbbing. As his sight fades in and out of focus, he spots the gun rack on the back of Derek's truck, sporting one _glorious_ shotgun. He swears and prays to God it's loaded.

He skids to a stop next to the truck, feet sliding through the snow. He grapples for the gun, his working hand stiff and numb from the cold. He fights with the gun for a moment before pulling it free and stumbling backwards, damn near shooting _himself_ in the face. He hears the sounds of snapping teeth and ripping skin; it chills him more thoroughly than the cold ever could. He snaps around, fighting with the gun, checking hurriedly to make sure it's loaded. He almost cries in relief when he sees that is. Two shells. Double barrel. He's got this.

"_Stiles!_"

Derek.

Derek is shouting his name.

He looks around wildly and _sees_ why there was so much fear in Derek's voice, so much terror and pain and anguish. The Alpha's bright red eyes are trained on him and its lips are drawn back into a blood chilling snarl. Its claws dig into the grass and it leaps for him, all raw power and taunt muscle. It's quick, but he's quicker. He brings the shotgun up, aims, and fires.

The pellets strike the Alpha in the face and it jolts back in pain, blood spurting from is face as it lets out a growl of pure anger.

He finds Derek at his side immediately, all hot rage and panicked concern. "_Are you an idiot?!_" he roars.

Stiles feels quite offended because he hit the bastard werewolf _right in the face_, damn it! That has to earn him some 'you're a good human' points I mean _c'mon_. "What?" he snaps as Derek grips him by the arm _hard_ and hauls him across the lawn, away from the temporarily blinded Alpha. "At least I hit it?! What more do you want from me?"

"You don't shoot a werewolf," he growls in reply, "It's only going to make him more angry!"

"Oh shit."

"Exactly, 'Oh shit'!—fuck, fuck, _run!_" Derek's pushes him to the ground just as the Alpha closes in on them, rearing its ugly head and sinking its teeth savagely into his shoulder. Derek screams in pained rage as Stiles can only stare helplessly in shock. He hears Derek's bones crack and crunch, watches as his face contorts in agony and it makes his chest ache in the worst way. Derek's eyes flash blue as he tries to rip himself out of the Alpha's clenched tight jaw. "GO!" he cries, looking at Stiles with a pleading expression, one so broken and raw it makes Stiles' chest seize up.

Scott swoops in like a prayer, brandishing his claws and stabbing them into the back of the Alpha's neck. It lets out a surprised roar and releases Derek from it's jaws. He stumbles forward and falls straight into Stiles' waiting arms. Scott leads the blind Alpha away from where Derek and Stiles lay in a heap on the ground. Stiles loses focus then, everything bleeding into the background because he can't breathe. Derek's dying and _he can't breathe_.

Derek wheezes in Stiles' arms and makes a whining, blood bubbling noise in his throat. "Oh my god," Stiles whimpers as he pulls Derek in closer to him. His hands become so smeared in blood it makes him want to vomit. His own pain dissolves into the background, his broken wrist forgotten. And oh, god they are so fucked. So incredibly fucked it really isn't funny. "C'mon Derek," he groans into his wet and matted hair, "you can't die on me yet. I mean, that would be extremely unfair. We have this whole unresolved sexual tension thing going on, and your weird smelling thing, which I honestly don't mind as much as I probably should, so you just _can't_ die, not until I've at least gotten a taste of your lips, I mean seriously," he babbles, grip tightening around Derek's torso, "god, this is _so_ messed up."

"Stiles," Derek croaks into his neck, "please be _quiet_."

Stiles laughs hysterically because Derek is _talking_ which means he hasn't bled to death. Can that even happen to werewolves? Can they bleed to death? Cause he sure as hell doesn't know!

He looks up just in time to see Scott force the Alpha to shift into an older looking gentleman. He presses down on his neck and forces the man to his knees. "Who are you?" Scott yells at him, demanding.

The man's face is all kinds of misconstrued; his eyes are red from the copious amounts of blood dripping down his cheeks and his nose hangs loosely to one side, ripped up and fleshy. His lips, however, curl up into a nasty smile. "I'm your future."

That sends chills down Stiles' spine.

The unknown man chooses that moment to twist out of Scott's grip, kick him to the side and haul ass into the forest. Scott snarls and looks as if he is going to chase him when Peter's voice breaks through all of the chaos, "let him go, Scott. I know who he is."

Stiles looks towards Peter who has the werewolf from before by the neck. He is gangly and looks sacred out of his mind; Stiles almost feel sorry for the guy. And then Peter's eyes go cold, his face turns vicious and he snaps the werewolf's neck in one swift and final crack. He drops him on to the ground like discarded garbage and steps over his corpse as if it were nothing.

Stiles doubles over and retches into the grass. When he finishes, he wipes the excess vomit from his mouth, accidentally smearing Derek's blood across as he does.

Peter peers at him curiously.

Scott balks. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he seethes angrily, shaking in rage.

"He was a complication," Peter says flippantly.

"You can't just _murder_ people!" Scott screams.

Stiles' throat burns from the acid of his own vomit, but he can feel Derek breathing against his neck so he focuses on his warm puffs of breath instead.

"If you want to blame someone for his murder," Peter says, "you can thank Gerard Argent, the man who you previously had kneeling in submission at your feet."

Scott inhales sharply. "Argent?" he repeats, looking lost and grief stricken all at once.

Peter ignores Scott and strides towards where Stiles and Derek rest, crumpled into one another.

"Shall we go inside?" Peter asks, gently extracting Derek from Stiles' grip and hauling him up right. "There's been enough excitement for today."

Stiles nods and follows him inside, cradling his injured hand numbly.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews loved, concrit welcome.**

**Follow me on tumblr! My URL is neuroticsourwolf. **

**I should update within the week. **


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

Derek grunts as Peter deposits him on the soiled and bloody couch. He winces visibly but most of his color is already starting to return, so Stiles counts it as an improvement. His uniform, however, is soaked in blood and ripped past recognition; even his radio is a mangled lost cause, which is too bad. Stiles shudders as he moves to stare at Derek, eyes zooming in on his gaping, bleeding flesh. He glances away immediately, sickened; his stomach still toils from being emptied onto Derek's lawn. Not sure what to do next, Stiles meanders towards the couch and stops just before it, gaze contemplative, if a bit lost. Derek looks up at him with a sweat lined brow, gaze glassy and unfocused.

"Are you hurt?" Derek rasps in poorly concealed concern. His chest heaves in a hitching movement, making clear the amount of pain he is in.

Stiles wants to laugh self deprecatingly because _Derek_ was the one who had gotten bitten, not him. "I'm fine," he says instead. He isn't though, not _really_. Sure, physically he got away with a broken wrist, but he had watched Peter _kill a man_. But, no, that's not quite right, is it? Peter didn't kill a _man_. He killed a _werewolf_, who likely used to be a man. And perhaps that's all kinds of fucked up and maybe Stiles is a screwed up individual because he feels _thankful_. He watched a person's neck snap and he's _thankful_.

Stiles has the sudden urge to vomit all over again, but his stomach tightens at the thought.

Derek continues to watch him. "You're covered in blood," he states, jaw clicking.

"Yours," Stiles says quickly, suddenly reminded of the grime covering him. "I'm—I'm okay. I'm fine." A lie.

Derek snuffs at the air and frowns. "You're lying."

"I'm not," Stiles argues weakly, heart hammering a bit faster.

"The heart isn't capable of lying," Derek murmurs softly, "and yours stuttered when you said you were fine." He pauses, gaze going somber. Goosebumps ripple over the back of Stiles' neck as he swallows nervously. Derek's gaze travels down Stiles' arm and stops on his swollen wrist. "Your wrist," he says gruffly.

Stiles touches it lightly and winces. "Broken," he answers begrudgingly.

For a brief moment, Derek looks murderous but it fades away almost as quickly as it had come, instead replaced by extreme weariness. "I told you to stay inside."

"I don't listen very well," Stiles quips, lips quirking upwards.

Derek exhales a gentle laugh. "So I am learning."

"Let Derek rest," Peter says from behind Stiles, reminding him of his presence. "Your chattering takes up too many of my nephew's meager brain cells, I'm afraid."

Stiles thinks he should be offended, but instead he feels a bit amused. Derek, however, is not. He growls at Peter.

"Now, now," Peter chastises, "don't be like that."

Even though Derek looks as if he is going to say something else, Stiles stalks off before he can. Peter is right, after all. He searches out Scott automatically; he's catatonic and standing in the doorway like a lost puppy. Stiles takes pity on him. "Hey, dumbass," he calls affectionately. "Know where Derek keeps the first aid kit?" He holds up his wrist and winces for emphasis. Scott blinks, pauses, and then nods sullenly. "Awesome," he continues, forcing a ridiculously fake smile. He tries not to think about the blood staining the clothes that aren't his, or the cracked blood smeared across his neck and cheeks. It is deceptively easy to trick his mind into a false sense of reality.

"In the cabinet," Scott mumbles, edging past Stiles and swinging open one of the higher cupboards. He pulls out a dusty first aid kit and tosses it on the countertop. He grips at the kit, frowning something fierce. A multitude of emotions flicker across his face like an oncoming storm, pained and worrisome.

Stiles uses his good hand to wrench the kit from Scott's grip and pull out an ace bandage. He looks at Scott expectantly. "Hey airhead," he prods, "help me, would you?"

"Oh," Scott breathes, scowling apologetically as he twists the bandage around Stiles' purpling wrist. "Sorry."

Stiles sighs theatrically. "Get it out already, Scott," he grumbles, "your silent sulking is really unbecoming."

There is a pause and then Scott looks up, soulful brown eyes filled with such confusion Stiles already feels drained. "Peter said the Alpha—he called him Gerard… Gerard _Argent_."

"Ah," Stiles exhales as he leans into the counter. "You're worried about Allison."

Scott nods curtly.

"I'm sure there is no family connection, Scott. I wouldn't worry about it." That's a lie, of course, but Scott looks like he needs words of encouragement, not the cold, hard truth.

"But what if there is?" Scott contends angrily.

Stiles frowns. "Then we'll deal with it," he says resolutely, "in the _morning_, when I don't have a headache the size of Texas."

"But—"

"Scott, I get it. You love her; you write sonnets in her name, you want her to have your sickly adorable babies—but me? I just want to get off this mountain without _dying_." Stiles pauses, fiddling with the rough edge of his ace bandage. "I can't leave my dad with no one," he says tightly. "So, I respect that you're worried about Allison, but _you_ need to respect that there are more important things to focus on right now."

"Fine," Scott snaps at him, stomping off in a fit, shoulders hunched. Stiles groans and presses his good hand into his forehead before moving his fingers to massage his temples. He just wants to _sleep_. So that is exactly what he does.

* * *

There is a warm hand sliding up over his forehead and into his hair, the contact gentle and comforting. Stiles hums and leans into the touch automatically, his eyes fluttering open. Derek is looming over him, his lips twisted into an unfairly attractive scowl. Stiles blinks at him owlishly.

"Up," Derek grunts, loosely gripping Stiles by his upper arm and tugging.

Stiles eyes him blearily, yawning widely before curling in on himself and shutting his eyes once more. "No," he refuses obstinately. Sleep is important. Sleep is _good_.

He hears Derek sigh grumpily. "You're covered in blood."

"So are you," he points out, cracking his eyes open to give Derek a quick once over. He's pleased to note Derek's shoulder looks exceedingly better; no fleshy bits or gushing blood, at least. But he still smells like dead squirrel carcass. Stiles scrunches up his nose at that 'cause _gross_.

Derek glares down at him. "Just get up, Stiles," he grumbles, looking almost pathetic.

Against his better judgment, Stiles lets Derek haul him to his feet without another word. He stands there for a moment, gathering his bearings as Derek steadies him gently by the shoulders. He then proceeds to just stand there. And stare at him. With a frown on his face. Looking decidedly constipated.

"What?" Stiles mutters at him, lifting his hand to rub at his left eye distractedly. He had fallen asleep in the only available loveseat after his energy-draining conversation with Scott. Now that he has a proper look around, Peter is nowhere to be found, but Scott is propped up on the floor, looking cranky even while asleep. Huh.

"You need to shower," Derek tells him, already dragging him unwillingly towards the only bathroom in the place.

Stiles attempts to jerk out of his grip, to no avail. "Uh—so do you?" he challenges skeptically as Derek drags the door open and shoves him inside… and then closes the door behind himself, locking it with a distinct click. Um.

Derek levels his gaze on him then and there is just _something_ about the way he is looking at him. It can almost be described as smoldering. Which, _what?_ "That would be kind of the point," Derek says throatily, eyes dark and _lust laden_? Stiles is quite sure he may have broken reality and replaced it with all of his prepubescent fantasies since the beginning of _time_.

"Uh," he manages dumbly as his vocal coherency flees the building.

They stand there in very tense, very awkward silence. Derek is glowering at him as if he can somehow glare his intentions into Stiles' brain which… _oh_. "You want to shower _with_ me," he squeaks. "Naked."

This time, Derek does roll his eyes. "So it would seem," he bites out, the smoldering look gone, instead replaced by irritated tolerance.

Which damn, Stiles had really liked Derek looking all surly and smoldering. "Thirteen percent of all falls occur in the bathroom," Stiles rattles, surprising even himself with the absurd way in which his brain works. Derek looks at him as if he's grown another head. "I think I account for at _least_ eight percent of that statistic, just so you know what you're get—"

Derek's lips silence him as they press in roughly. Stiles gasps, hot breath mixing with Derek's as he claims his mouth with possessive vigor, with want, and repressed hunger. The kiss is forceful and warm and wet and – _woah_. Stiles' good hand flashes forward to grip at the tattered remains of Derek's uniform, fisting into the torn fabric as a moan slips past his lips and into Derek's eager mouth. His tongue flutters across Stiles' lower lip almost teasingly before he nips at it with bruising force. Stiles fights back, pushing in, needing more, more, _more_. Derek tastes so damn good, like fresh mint and raw sex. It's intoxicating.

As Derek pulls away, Stiles whines in protest, his voice betraying him. He is incapable of thinking straight. All the blood has rushed to his head, leaving him flushed from being so thoroughly kissed. Derek has moved a hand to his jaw, thumb stroking at his lower lip, a pleased rumble reverberating from his chest. Stiles flickers his eyes upwards and Derek's piercing blue gaze strips him away bare, breathless. "Take off your clothes," Derek demands with a growl. His hands have already relocated to start tugging at Stiles' shirt as if it personally offends him.

Stiles smirks at him. "Only if you take off yours first," he tells him, feeling suddenly cheeky. He leans up and his breath sweeps across Derek's ear as he speaks. "Thought it'd be that easy to get me naked did you?"

He barely gets the words out before Derek pushes him backwards and rips his shirt off with an angry jerk. Stiles yelps in surprise, absently noting the beast is testy when poked. "Now look what you went and did," Stiles complains as Derek dips his head to snuffle at his throat aggressively, nails digging into the fabric of his pants.

Derek snorts. "That shirt wasn't yours," he mutters against Stiles skin and, _oh_, what _is_ he doing with his tongue? Ch_rist_. "It belonged to _me_."

"Mm, point," Stiles rasps, voice hitching as Derek begins to suck on the mark he'd left previously, stubble rubbing against his jaw roughly. Stiles hisses at the mistreatment and then gasps as Derek forces his pants – and underwear! – off. He stumbles backwards, stepping out of them and hitting his naked back against the bathroom wall clumsily. Derek is growling happily as his hands roam up Stiles' lower back, his nails dragging delicately over the exposed skin; Stiles shudders at the caress.

"You smell like me," Derek rumbles possessively into Stiles ear after trailing soft, fleeting butterfly kisses up the side of his neck, "like _mine_."

"Shit," Stiles curses because if he wasn't already hard, that sure as hell would have sealed the deal.

Derek's lips claim his for a second time and this kiss is slower, softer. He drags it out with parted lips and the fleeting meeting of their tongues. As he withdraws, his eyes glow dangerously and he rakes his gaze up and down Stiles' body. Stiles feels unexpectedly exposed and so very vulnerable in that moment. He looks away, face on fire. Derek chuckles.

Stiles glares and shoves Derek away, who dares to look _amused_. "No more heavy petting," he declares, "until you are _also_ naked."

Derek smirks. "Very well, your royal highness."

Stiles grumbles as he stalks over the shower—still very aware of his own nakedness—and twists the knob, bringing the spray to life. When he turns around, Derek has his shirt half removed, showing off his chest. Stiles swallows audibly because _damn_. He had known Derek was built; there was no denying that but – _wow_. He has the sudden urge to run his working hand along the hard line of Derek's abs, possibly while licking them. And then Derek is unbuckling his belt and slipping out of his slacks, naked as the day he came into this world.

He nearly faints, but Derek catches him by the arm and begins to methodically unwind his ace bandage. He tosses it to the ground and scowls at the purple and yellow skin, delicately running his thumb over the abused flesh. With a displeased grunt, he slides the shower curtain back and forces Stiles into the scalding spray without another word.

Derek steps in behind him, Stiles blinking into the water as he is suddenly very aware of the very large, very male anomaly pressing into his back. Derek's arms come to rest idly on Stiles' hips and he's so aware of the soft and lazy touch that the contact burns. He's mid freak out when Derek reaches around him to snag the loofah hanging from the shower head.

"Turn around," Derek orders. Stiles does so. He's greeted with a face full of soap and rough loofah induced cleaning. He sputters indignantly. "Hold _still_," Derek grumbles. Stiles wiggles and jerks away instinctively. One of Derek's hands flies up to grip him tight, effectively subduing him. Derek dunks Stiles' head under the spray abruptly to wash away the soap and then pulls him back flush against his front. Their dicks rub against one another, leaving Stiles to groan at the sudden contact, leaning in against Derek helplessly as his lower half contracts a serious case of jelly legs.

"They heavy petting can start now y'know," Stiles moans pathetically, getting grabby.

Derek catches his eager hand in a tight grip. "Not yet," he grunts.

"Tease," Stiles pouts.

Derek grins down at him indulgently. "Patience," he says almost playfully. "I hear it's a virtue."

"Oh, now you're just being an ass." Stiles smacks him for good measure.

He merely hums in reply, scrubbing the soap laden loofah down Stiles' neck and then over his chest. He cleans Stiles almost languidly, getting every spot of dirt and blood out of his pours. Stiles lets him, relaxing and enjoying Derek's hands all over his body. He's never had anyone clean him before; it's oddly intimate in the way that casual sex never quite manages to be. At Derek's gentle prodding he turns around, granting him access to his no doubt filthy back. It doesn't take long until he's covered in soap spuds and Derek is pushing him under the spray once more.

When he looks back at Derek, the older man is holding out the loofah. "Your turn," he informs him.

Stiles blinks. "You want me to—?"

"Yes," Derek responds gruffly, shaking the loofah impatiently.

Stiles snatches it out of Derek's outstretched arm with his good hand and grins. He smashes it into Derek's face without warning and laughs. "Payback's a bitch," he snickers.

He removes the loofah to find Derek scowling at him, suds all over his face. "What's wrong? The grumpy wolf doesn't like a face full of soap?" he taunts.

But then Derek is grinning and forcing a kiss on top of Stiles' wide mouth. He tastes like soap and leaves Stiles sputtering. "Okay," he whines as they break apart. "That was just _unfair_."

Derek nudges past him, careful not to bump his bad wrist, and steps under the water. Once his face is spud-free, he smirks. "Done already? I didn't know you gave up so easily _Stilinski_."

"Not a chance, man," he says, smiling. He steps forward, running the loofah up and down Derek's torso, appreciating the view while he does so. As he works his way from one side to the other, he stops over the bright pink mark on Derek's shoulder. He removes the loofah to gaze at it. He peers at Derek, who is staring at him in return, unreadable expression in place. "Does it still hurt?" he asks tentatively.

"No."

Stiles frowns, the guilt coming back in full force.

"It wasn't your fault," Derek says softly, as if sensing Stiles' mood.

"But—"

Derek reaches forward to run the pads of his fingers over the line of his jaw. "I said it wasn't your fault," he huffs gruffly, "so it's not."

"Okay," he exhales.

Derek nods, as if he considers the matter resolved and turns around, baring his back for Stiles to wash. Stiles' eyes widen automatically. "You have a tattoo?" he blurts without thinking. He hooks the loofah around his wrist and starts touching immediately, tracing the outline of the three swirls. Derek doesn't stiffen under his touch like he expects him to, but instead relaxes into it.

"It's a Triskelion," Derek says, as if Stiles doesn't already know that.

"Father, son, holy spirit," he rattles off, "Celtic, often represented in Christianity—_oh_," he pauses in realization, "Alpha, Beta, Omega."

He notes the way Derek's wet hair flops as he nods. "Yeah," he says and it almost sounds shy. Stiles smiles privately to himself, still dragging his fingers across Derek's wet skin. He breaks out of his trance with the shake of his head and resumes scrubbing. He makes quick work of it and tosses to loofah to their feet when he finishes. "Done," he announces with a flourish.

"Good," Derek husks, all rough baritones as he turns by his heel so quickly it makes Stiles' head spin. He presses hot palms against his face and Stiles knows the kiss is coming, he expects it, but it is so warm and filled with _feeling_ that it catches him off guard. Derek mouths at his lips with a slow sort of reverence, as if he's trying to memorize every crevice and quirk of pleasure. It's emotionally raw, powerful and it sets Stiles heart ablaze. He can feel his heart rate pick up, beating excitedly.

"God, you smell—" Derek cuts himself off, making a soft and frustrated sound. He palms at Stiles' hips and jerks them into his. "_Fuck_, Stiles."

"I know, _I know_," Stiles gasps back at him, digging his own hips into Derek's, rubbing, _needing_—and wow, okay, Derek is grabbing his dick, holy shit his _dick_ is in Derek's hand and he's, fuck, _fuck_. "Yes, God, _please_," he begs as Derek works his hand upwards, thumb swiping over the head of Stiles' dick multiple times before digging into the slit and dragging down. It's a sweet torture and he can't help but moan shamelessly.

Derek moves to bite at Stiles' neck with blunt teeth and he _loves it_. He loves the way the scrape of teeth feels against his skin, especially paired with the tender strokes of Derek's hand against his cock. He can feel it building, the surmounting pleasure. "Derek," he whines, "Derek, Derek, _Derek_."

He lets go suddenly, much to Stiles' displeasure. "Why'd you stop—" but he feels Derek's hard length lined up against his own, his hand slick from the water and soap, grasping them both, pumping "—_oohhhh_, shit, yes, _oh my God_." Stiles bucks his hips involuntarily, head going back, exploding with ecstasy.

Derek growls and it really shouldn't turn him on even more, but it sure as hell does. Derek's pace picks up, pumping faster, more vigorously. "Stiles," he groans into his neck, "you so fucking right," he continues, squeezing the heads of their dicks together again and again and again, "smell like home, smell right, _fuck_,"

"Fuck," Stiles cries out, "don't say shit like that."

"Like what?" Derek says dragging his teeth across the crest of Stiles' jaw. "That you smell good enough to eat?"

"_Christ_," Stiles pants, "asshole."

Derek laughs into his mouth. The meeting of lips is short, sweet, but lost amongst the groaning and desperate jerks of their rubbing bodies.

Here, right now with Derek, is a whole new level of intimate for him. Because, sure, he's fooled around before but he's never, not like _this_—and it feels right. Stiles doesn't believe in cosmic love, he doesn't believe in fate, or soul mates, but in this moment, finite as it may be, he feels made for Derek. He feels the pull, the want, the sparking attraction. He's filled to brim and he never wants that feeling to disappear.

Stars explode before his eyes as he comes in uneven spurts, run ragged and heaving for mercy. "Derek, Derek, Derek," he mumbles into his chest, jerking as his body rides out the best freaking orgasm _of his life_.

It doesn't take long for Derek to join him, his own come coating not only his own stomach, but Stiles' as well. He exhales raggedly, eyes blissed out and brilliant blue. He rests his head against Stiles, sated smile in place.

"That was," Stiles breathes, smile dopey.

"Yeah," Derek agrees.

"If you want," Stiles begins, face flushing even more if possible, "we could, I mean, I'm not adverse to you," he coughs awkwardly, "having your wicked way with me?"

Derek looks like he would very much like to do just that but instead, he says, "Not yet." A pause. "There are… things you don't yet know. That you should know, before we go that far."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Then tell me, you idiot. It's sex, not rocket science."

Derek glowers at him as if he's being difficult on purpose. Which he is, but he just got denied. He's entitled to be a little difficult. "We will," he promises darkly. "Later." He places a chaste kiss on Stiles' lips and then flees the shower, leaving Stiles by his lonesome under the now lukewarm spray.

"Way to kill the mood!" Stiles yells after him.

After a moment of grumbling to himself, Stiles turns off the water and steps out in to the steam. Derek already has pants on and is slipping a shirt over his head when Stiles meanders over to the counter area. A pair of clothes is also set out for him, which isn't surprising since Derek had planned to attack him all along, the sneaky bastard. Stiles dresses just as quickly and lets Derek rewrap his wrist with careful diligence.

"Scott's awake," Derek informs him with the cock of his head. He vanishes from the bathroom in the next moment, leaving Stiles to frown after him. He slaps himself on the cheek and makes his own exit a moment later. The face Scott shoots him when he steps out is so worth every untoward Allison rehash he has ever been forced to listen to.

Stiles smirks at him and winks.

"Gross, Stiles!" Scott rages before throwing himself back on the couch. Stiles snickers evilly. Revenge tastes oh-so-sweet.

After puttering around the kitchen and scrounging up breakfast for four—whilst batting away Scott's grabby hands—he sets the table and beams as Derek and Peter deign to join them. He gestures gallantly at the table. "Breakfast is served," he says.

"Oh thank _God_," Scott groans, sliding into his seat with too much enthusiasm.

Peter sits down politely, smiles creepily and nods a thank you.

Derek stands there awkwardly for a moment, growls to himself, seems to decide something and plants a soft kiss on Stiles' cheek before sitting down, ears tinged red.

Oh.

"_Seriously?_" Scott balks.

Peter merely chuckles darkly and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Shut up McCall," Derek snarls.

Stiles grins stupidly as he takes his own seat next to Derek, hooking their feet together.

Derek sits back and he looks almost content.

And that is the reason why it's so hard to say what he has to say next. He clears his throat. "I have a plan," he declares gaze shifting hesitantly to look at Derek as he continues, "but you're not going to like it."

* * *

It takes lots of convincing (coupled with snarling and growling and general protests from Derek), but here Stiles finds himself, in the middle of the forest, leaves crunching underfoot as he tries not to panic. It's not every day one gets to be bait for a murderous alpha werewolf, after all. He's been walking around aimlessly now for what feels like ages. He knows he has three shadows, carefully hidden and out of sight. Even so, he _also_ knows the Alpha—Gerard—is no fool. When he shows his face, he'll be ready for the ambush.

What he won't be ready for, is Stiles' clever mind.

He can't say he's even surprised when Gerard steps out into the light moments later, gaze cold and calculating, three werewolves on his flank. Two look young, confused—one is even shaking. The last is middle aged, dirty and almost feral in appearance. It makes Stiles tense, but he flexes his toes and reminds himself that everything will be okay. He cracks a smile. "I see your face is all nice and healed," he drawls, forcing a playful smirk.

Gerard smiles slowly as if he _knows_ what Stiles is up to. He relaxes his shoulders and peers at Stiles as if he is a particularly interesting specimen. "Come to accept the bite?" Gerard asks. "Scott will be pleased."

It takes everything within him not to respond in the sarcastic way he wants to. "Is that why you want me?" he inquires aloofly. "To make it easier for Scott?"

"Among other things," Gerard says, taking a step closer, the werewolves surrounding him fan out, edging ever closer. "I know your little friends are here," he comments off hand. Stiles had expected no less. "The alpha can feel them, even if they belong to another. I'd offer them sanctuary in my pack, but born werewolves are so … _complicated_."

Stiles stays rooted to the spot. "Is that why you turned the hunters?"

Gerard has the gall to look impressed. "You know about that then? How I gained my power?"

"Yes," Stiles responds. "But what I don't get… is _why_. Why become what you hate?"

Gerard leans down to pick out a stick off the forest floor. He taps it against his palm, as if in deep thought. "Did you know that werewolves have extraordinary healing powers? That whatever ails you as a human… ceases to exist once you are turned?"

Ah. "You were dying."

"Cancer; really dreary stuff, that." He fixes a steely gaze on Stiles. "But, shall we skip all of this pleasantry? And get to the real reason you're here? You see Stiles, I've watched you, long before you found yourself on this mountain top. And the thing about you is that you'd never accept the bite. The threat of death is too prominent. We wouldn't want dear old dad to lose the last remaining person he loves, now would we?"

That causes pause. Gerard had watched him before? How was that even possible? Stiles swallows, quelling the anger threatening to spill over at the mention of his dad. He narrows his eyes and presses his feet into the dirt, centering himself. He lets his mind whirl at this new information. "Biting Scott wasn't random," he says, keeping his voice steady. "It was intentional."

Gerard smirks. "Glad to see you can keep up, son." He takes another step closer, pointing the stick at Stiles, his eyes now glowing a frightening red.

"Is this where you make the big reveal?" Stiles asks dryly. "Declare your great plan, prattle on about how clever you are? Because I have you figured out now, Gerard," Stiles sneers, taking a step forward, so that the outstretched stick is pressing into his chest. "Your last name is Argent. You were obviously watching me, but I was never your target. I was just always there. With Scott. With Allison—whose last name is also coincidentally Argent. Funny, isn't it?"

"Ah, yes, Allison, my granddaughter. Beautiful girl," Gerard rumbles, eyes sharp, canines extending. "It's really a shame her father shot down my plan, poisoned her against me. I wanted her in my pack—but she was too well guarded."

"So you took that which she loved the most," Stiles concludes for him. "Scott."

"You are a clever one," Gerard hums. "Perhaps too smart for your own good."

Stiles smiles defiantly. "Scott will never join your pack," he declares boldly, "nor will Allison. Scott would never let her, because unlike you, he _actually_ loves her."

Gerard is on him in a split second, holding him up by the neck, claws enclosed around his throat, digging in painfully. Stiles claws at Gerard's hands, gasping for breath and hoping against hope no one does anything stupid. "It is such a shame," Gerard seethes, "I didn't want to have to kill you." He squeezes tighter, drawing blood. Stiles has a moment of unfocused panic before he grins.

"Boom," he croaks.

He enjoys the look of confusion on Gerard's face before he explodes in a fiery hellfire, roaring in pain. Stiles is thrown back several paces, skidding across the grass, arms ripping against the uneven rocks and sticks. He sits up gasping, blessed air filling his lungs. The word is turning and bright lights are flashing before his eyes. He doesn't have time to get his bearings before he's being pulled upright roughly by his broken wrist. He screams in reflex, turning wild eyes on the scrappy, terrifying werewolf from earlier. He bares his disgusting canines at Stiles and lunges.

Stiles braces himself for the pain, for the inevitable tearing out of his throat, but it never comes. Instead, the werewolf collapses on top of him, gurgling blood all over his shoulder. Derek stands above him, lips reared back in a snarl, a heart clasped tightly in his claws. Stiles pushes the dead werewolf off of him and wipes at the disgusting drool-blood on his shoulder. "Oh, this is just disgusting," he groans. He glares at Derek, who looks about as friendly as a deranged Rottweiler at the moment. "This doesn't make me a damsel in distress I will have you know," Stiles tells him seriously.

Derek grunts and helps him to his feet.

They both jerk their heads to the right at the sound of Scott's roar. He has Gerard by the throat, pinning the charred remains of the elder man to ground. "I'm going to kill you," he snarls, arm rearing back, poised to strike.

"Scott, no!" Stiles yells breathlessly, already sprinting helplessly towards him.

To his credit Scott stills, looking at Stiles with what appears to be regret. "Sorry Stiles but I have to do this," he whispers before cleaving his hand through Gerard's chest, twisting and pulling back.

Stiles slams his body into Scott's, knocking him off of Gerard and sending them tumbling through the dirt. He slams Scott down on his back and wails on him, landing a punch square on his stupidly crooked jaw. He then grabs Scott by the head. "Look at me!" he demands, searching for any signs of red bleeding into Scott's irises.

Scott does, the gold hue of his eyes flickering before going out in a burst and shimmer. His eyes roll into the back of his head and his body begins to seize, shaking violently. "_Oh my god_, Scott!" Stiles yells, suddenly afraid and regretting his actions immediately.

Derek is there suddenly, ripping Stiles off of Scott and pushing him away. "Get back," he orders.

"What's happening to him?" Stiles demands to know, stumbling forward and falling to his knees beside Scott.

"I don't know," Derek grits out, holding Scott's body in place as he thrashes.

Scott calms abruptly, going slack in Derek's arms.

"Is he…?" Stiles asks, fear etched into his tone.

Scott jolts up right with a gasp and Derek rears back. He glares at Stiles. "You punched me," Scott moans, rubbing his jaw absently.

Stiles gets over the immediate relief that Scott _isn't dead_ with startling swiftness. "Of course I punched you! You're a _dumbass_—do you even know what killing an Alpha means?!" Stiles shouts hysterically.

"Yes, _God_ Stiles, give me _some_ credit!" Scott yells back, hands balled into angry fists.

"You could have become the next Alpha you jackass!" Stiles lurches forward, but Derek catches him by the waist and holds him back.

"Well I didn't," Scott snaps back.

"You shouldn't have taken the chance!" Stiles growls as his whole body shakes in anger. Because he _is_ angry. Not just at Scott, but at Gerard and this whole fucked up situation and just—just _everything_. He feels the tears fighting at the back of his eyes and he wipes them away furiously as they spill over. "Fuck, fuck," he says in frustration.

Scott looks shocked. He opens his mouth to respond.

"No, just shut up okay Scott, just shut up. You're my best fucking friend—do you know how I'd feel if I'd lost you—to death or some fucked up werewolf insanity?"

"Stiles—"

"No, you listen to me, if you ever—_ever_—get twisted around in this kind of bullshit again I will kill you myself. I will. So don't—don't make me, alright? Just—Just marry Allison hand have her perfect babies and be happy so help my sanity—"

"That's enough," Derek says, hand sliding from his waist—and, oh, he'd forgotten he was being held—to press Stiles' lips shut.

Scott looks miserable.

Which is, of course, when Peter decides to make his presence known.

"Fascinating," Peter says, coming to a stand just behind Scott. His hands are clasped behind his back and he looks contemplative. "You killed the Alpha that turned you, and it cured you," he smiles, doubling his usual creep factor. "It seems the rumors are true."

Stiles' exclaim of "what," is muffled by Derek's hand so he turns angry eyes on Peter instead, glaring his questions at him.

Peter indulges him with a sly smile before looking back at Scott.

"I… am?" Scott smiles brightly. "I'm human? You're sure?" He pats at his stomach and inhales deeply. "Why do I still feel strong? And why am I not having an asthma attack?"

"Residual strength," Peter answers. "It will wear off eventually, so don't get too excited."

"Where are the others?" Derek asks Peter gruffly, tone still deep and rugged with the gravity of transpired events.

Peter smiles pleasantly. "They are hog tied and subdued for now. I will take them back with me when I leave; your mother will offer them sanctuary, I'm sure."

Derek nods.

Peter reaches forward to pat Stiles on the head. "Good thinking with the Molotov cocktails, kid."

"Thanks for the late throw," Stiles snaps back, after wrenching his mouth free of Derek's hand.

Peter chuckles. "Your friend Lydia is very good, isn't she? Got all those ingredients, and so quickly."

"And probably illegally," Stiles grumbles under his breath. He sighs and turns to Scott. "Sorry I punched you."

Scott grins toothily. "No problem, dude."

"Now can we bury this son of a bitch and move on with our lives?" He gestures to Gerard's remains with a blank face.

"Way ahead of you, man," Scott says.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Gerard's remains are buried, the Argents notified, and a meeting set between the two warring sides. Peter bids his farewell, the two sulking werewolves in tow. After a quick once over, Derek deems that Scott is, in fact, completely human and that he's free to go (which Scott scoffs a "yeah, dude, I know" at him). Which is what brings Stiles to the present, standing outside of Scott's car, right back where he started.

"Allison loves me," Scott blurts happily and Stiles swears he can see little hearts swirling around his head.

"Seriously dude? We all almost died and what you get out of it is that Allison loves you?" Stiles throws his hands up. "I give up, you're a lost cause." He smacks Scott on the back of the head. "Also, you owe me sixty bucks."

"What?!"

"Just go, you're mom has been worried about you for weeks, and I have to think of the most epic of explanations to lead my father astray."

"What are you going to tell him about the Jeep?"

Stiles winces. "Derek sent it to the shop—honestly, I'm pretty screwed."

Scott grins mischievously. "Well, Derek is in law enforcement…" he trails off.

The biggest, shit-eating grin spreads across Stiles' face. "Dude," he says, "I knew I kept you around for _some_ reason. Don't squander your genius all in one place, now."

Scott out right laughs. "Bro-hug?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls Scott in for a one-armed hug. He pats him roughly on the back. "Now get out of here before I decide I want to beat your ass."

"Like you could," Scott scoffs.

"_Bye_ Scott." Stiles drones, pulling an unimpressed face.

"Later, loser." Scott smirks and slides into his car, speeding off to reunite with his one true love and well, do whatever happy endings are made of.

"Au revoir!" Stiles calls after the retreating car. He sighs and turns around.

Derek is scowling back at him.

Suddenly, Stiles' good mood is back. "Come on grumpy face," he says lightly, walking up to Derek and threading his fingers in his, "you have some explaining to do."

Derek seems placated by the way he grips Stiles' hand tighter and leads him back into the cabin. Once inside, he crowds Stiles up against the nearest wall, making the most pathetic needy noise as he sniffs at Stiles' neck. His tongue comes out, sliding up and down the blaring red claw marks with incomparable enthusiasm. He licks at them gently and Stiles arches back, baring his throat. Derek withdraws from Stiles' neck as he winds his arms around his thin hips.

He seems to catch himself and pulls back completely, looking constrained.

Stiles lets out a long suffering sigh. "Please, _God_, get whatever it is off your chest that is preventing you from fucking my brains out."

Derek frowns sourly at that. He shifts awkwardly. "There's a reason you …smell the way you do to me," he begins throatily, "and why you're so… _responsive_, to my advances."

Stiles blinks at him impishly. "Have you seen yourself?" he asks, arching a brow. "_Anyone_ would be responsive to your 'advances,' as you put it." Cause, really? Derek _cannot_ be that dense. He has the body of a freaking Greek God. Normal people _do not_ look like that. Stiles feels like he won the freaking lottery of hot bodies.

The frown intensifies. He clears his throat and continues sullenly. "There are certain individuals, who, well they—" Derek growls in frustration. "They smell different to wolves—to us, because we are compatible. Together."

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles quips, "So what, am I like your wolf's mate or something?"

Derek tenses at that word. "Not… technically. The smell is only an indicator. There is the possibility of another out there, that could smell the same—but _fuck_, Stiles you have no idea—" Derek lets out a soft, throaty whine, sticking his head back up against Stiles' neck, inhaling as if Stiles is the best smelling dessert in the whole world. Which, by the way, he totally _is_. "I can't get enough—you're so _frustrating_."

Absently, Stiles threads his fingers through Derek's hair, enjoying the warmth of his body against his. "That's too bad for the others," he says lightly, "because I found you first. Dibs, dude."

Derek pulls back, his eyes half-lidded with want and dark with desire. He leans in, taking Stiles lips possessively. "Mine," he growls, fingers fisting into the soft fabric of Stiles' shirt.

Stiles pulls back, smiling quietly. "Yeah, yeah, you possessive oaf."

Derek grunts in reply, getting handsy all of a sudden.

"Alright Derek," Stiles begins smugly, "you're going to take me back to your bedroom and do some very naughty things to me that won't let me look my dad in the eye for at least a week," Derek growls in approval, "after which you are going to call Sheriff Stilinski in Beacon Hills and explain to him why my Jeep is at the mechanics and all of his camping gear got torn to shreds."

Derek pulls back. "Are you using my position in law enforcement to dupe your father?"

Stiles grins sheepishly. "Maybe?"

"Fine," Derek snaps, jerking Stiles roughly away from the wall before throwing him over his shoulder and heading for the bedroom. Stiles flails in surprise but laughs outright.

In the end, even though it was Scott that went on a grand adventure in search of his soul, Stiles was the one that found his.

* * *

**That's all folks! Hope you enjoyed the story. I should be posting a new one pretty soon, so stay tuned!**

**If you'd like updates, or to see what stories I have planned, you can follow me at neuroticsourwolf on tumblr. ;)**


End file.
